


the superest of superpowers

by luxluminaire



Category: The Bright Sessions (Podcast)
Genre: Coming of Age, Gen, Pre-Canon, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:15:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24526738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxluminaire/pseuds/luxluminaire
Summary: In the fall of 2005, Mark is seventeen years old, ready to conquer his senior year of high school and achieve his dream of going to art school. A visit to Joan soon turns his life upside-down, however, when he learns that not only do people with superpowers exist, but he is also one of them. As if figuring out yourself as a teenager isn't already hard enough, he now must learn how to deal with a strange new ability that doesn't seem to follow the rules and - with Joan's help - discover what it means to be an atypical in a world where people like him must keep their powers a secret.
Relationships: Joan Bright & Mark Bryant
Comments: 18
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to get into the appropriate mid-00s mood for this fic, I made a [Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4Rvu8L4N2PEScXll1Zmv5g) of songs that I think Mark would have been listening to in the fall of 2005. (you know you're in deep when you start making in-character playlists)

Mark has never been less interested in his last-period calculus class until this afternoon.

He doesn’t even like math in the first place and is only taking the class because it will look good on college applications (not that high-level math matters for art school, but that’s an argument that he’s had too many times with his parents), and so having to pay attention during the last hour of the school day before a four-day weekend is a tall order. Instead he doodles in the margins of the notes that he is supposed to be taking, distracted by the thought of how in just a few hours’ time he will be on his way to see his sister for the first time in almost four months.

He is used to not seeing Joan for a few months at a time, since he was only thirteen when she left for college, but when she was in undergrad he could usually rely on her coming home during her school breaks and settling back into her old bedroom as if she’d never left. After she’d packed up and permanently moved out of their parents’ house at the beginning of this past summer, however, she has been too busy to make the trip home. Mark has therefore been quick to arrange to visit her during his fall break, convincing his parents that he’ll be totally safe taking an almost five-hour bus ride by himself and that Joan will be right there to meet him at the bus station when he arrives. He’s fairly certain that his parents’ agreement to the plan is based more upon their trust in Joan than their trust in him, which he supposes is inevitable when Joan has always been the responsible one between the two of them.

He is adding a few falling leaves to the bare tree branches that stretch across the top of his notes when the bell rings. He stuffs his belongings into his backpack, barely listening to his teacher’s parting words to the class in his hurry to be the first one out of the classroom.

“Mr. Bryant!” his teacher, Mrs. McFarland, calls out to him when he is halfway to the door. She is one of those teachers who favors formality with her students, which always makes Mark feel like he’s either a million years old or that he is being mistaken for his dad.

“Yeah?” he replies, turning to face her with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Your homework, please.”

“Oh, whoops. Sorry about that,” he says, flashing her an apologetic smile. He’s not sure how much of an effect it will have, because the first several weeks of school have proven that she is not as easily charmed as some of his other teachers are. Predictably, she gives no response except to point toward her desk where the other students are putting their assignments in the turn-in tray.

He rummages in his bag to find his homework and falls into line to add the stapled-together pages to the growing pile. So much for his plan to bolt his way out of here, he thinks as he impatiently shifts his weight between his feet and resists the urge to push past a couple of classmates who are blocking the tray as their discuss their plans for the weekend.

“Hey, sorry, can I just—” he says, which prompts them to shift aside so that he can turn in his work.

“Have a good weekend, Mrs. McFarland!” he calls on his way out of the classroom. Some people think that his friendliness toward his teachers, even the stern and serious ones, is evidence of him sucking up to them, but in truth his affable attitude comes as easily to him as breathing and rarely carries any kind of ulterior motives.

He makes his way through the halls to his locker, stopping only briefly to chat with the various friends whom he encounters along the way. At his locker, he stuffs the books and notebooks that he needs for his homework into his backpack and resists the temptation to sneak off and make out with Tori, the girl whom he has been kind-of dating for the past couple of weeks, when she approaches him.

“I have to jet out of here to get ready for my trip this weekend,” he says to her. “I’ll probably be super busy while I’m there, but I’ll try to call you if I have time.”

“Too bad you’ll miss the party at Kyle’s tomorrow night,” she says. “His parents will be out of town for the whole weekend, so you _know_ things are gonna be good.”

“I’ll be there in spirit,” Mark assures her. He checks his watch and knows that he needs to be out the door in the next couple of minutes, but he takes the time to kiss her anyway.

“Ugh, gross. Get a room, you two,” his friend Josh says as he passes by Mark’s locker.

“Sorry, dude,” Mark replies, although he knows that Josh’s words of disgust are all in good fun. He fist-bumps him in a passing gesture before turning his attention back to Tori. “Seriously, though, I really need to be heading out. I’ll meet you at your locker Tuesday morning?”

She nods. “See you, Mark. Have fun this weekend.”

They share one more quick kiss before Mark leaves the school building and heads for the bike racks. Although he has had his driver’s license for over a year, not having a car of his own means that his bike has to be his vehicle of choice whenever he is unable to borrow a car from either of his parents. He pedals home as quickly as he can, winding his way through the residential streets with music from his iPod playing in his ears. The afternoon sun beats down on him, but a brisk autumn breeze in the air raises goosebumps on his skin as he coasts into his driveway.

He has meticulously planned out the brief stretch of time that he has at home before his departure, despite his natural tendency toward spontaneity. Most of his packing is already done, and so all he needs to do is add any last-minute items and double-check to make sure that he has not forgotten anything before bringing his bags downstairs. He then makes himself a sandwich to hold him over until he gets to Joan’s apartment later that night and sits perched on the kitchen counter while he eats, watching the hands of the clock on the wall tick closer toward 3:15, when his mom will arrive to give him a ride to the bus station. She is leaving work early for his sake, which is something of a surprise after years of him and Joan coming home from school to an empty house until their parents return at some point in the evening. He’s definitely not complaining, however, especially when the alternative is taking an early bus tomorrow morning and missing out on a whole night of hanging out with Joan.

The clock reads 3:14 when the front door opens with his mom’s arrival. “Mark, are these your things in the middle of the hallway?” she calls to him.

Mark slides off the counter before she has a chance to come into the kitchen and scold him for not sitting at the table like a normal person. “Yeah, I’m all ready to go,” he replies. “Just give me a sec.”

He meets her in the front hall and gathers his backpack and duffel bag that he is bringing with him. Knowing that she will tell him to put a jacket on before leaving the house, he digs into his duffel bag and takes out a sweatshirt that should be more than enough to keep him warm on the bus.

“Do you have everything you need?” his mom asks. “Clean socks and underwear? Toothbrush? Glasses? Contact solution?”

“You know, it’s not like I’m going to be in the middle of nowhere,” Mark replies, sliding his feet into his sneakers. “I can always go out and buy anything that I’ve forgotten.”

“I’d rather have you remember everything in the first place,” his mom says.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Please don’t roll your eyes at me like that,” she says as he walks past her to open the front door.

They’re off to the bus station after Mark tosses his bags into the back seat of the car and settles himself into the front seat. The drive is quiet, with the initial lack of conversation offset by the music coming from the CD player. Mark is fairly certain that his mom has kept the same four CDs on constant rotation since getting this car a few years ago, and today’s choice is the Beatles #1 Hits album. Many of the songs send him back to his younger years, when Joan would put their parents’ Beatles albums on the old record player while they sprawled out on the living room floor working on homework or writing to each other in the notebook that functions as a shared journal between them. He supposes that in some ways his parents are responsible for his love of music by instilling that foundation in him from an early age, even though he’s pretty sure they’d hate half of the artists that he listens to nowadays.

“You didn’t have to drive me to the station, you know,” he eventually says. “I could’ve gotten a friend to give me a ride.”

“I feel a lot better knowing that you’ll be there on time and not miss your bus,” his mom replies. “You and your friends aren’t always the most punctual.”

A distinct image enters Mark’s mind of his mom hovering at his side until the moment of his departure, waiting to watch the bus drive away like she’s seeing him off on his first day of kindergarten. It’s a strange contrast that his parents have been perfectly content to leave him and Joan home alone for hours starting from a young age and yet tend to border upon overprotectiveness whenever they are aware that he is stepping outside of the protective bubble of home and school. None of his friends fully understand his simultaneously strict and inattentive upbringing and how he has to be extra careful with his teenage social life, because even though his parents are almost never home they _will_ eviscerate him if they find out that he has been involved in anything potentially dangerous.

“Well, thanks,” he says, deciding that he shouldn’t appear ungrateful. “And I’m glad that you and Dad let me go on this trip.”

“I know how much you’ve missed Joan since she moved out. And with you heading to college yourself in a year, I suppose I should start getting used to you going off on your own. Besides, I’m sure that Joan will keep you in line.”

“Nah, she’ll definitely be sneaking me into bars and buying me booze,” Mark jokes, which makes his mom sigh in exasperation. “Living on her own has turned her wild, you know.”

When they arrive at the bus station, to his relief his mom pulls up in front of the building instead of finding a parking space so that she can stay with him while he waits for his departure. “Be safe,” she tells him as he unbuckles his seatbelt. “Behave yourself. Listen to Joan—”

“Oh my God, Mom. I’m seventeen, not seven,” Mark replies, hating how she is repeating the same words that he always used to hear whenever his parents would go out and leave preteen or teenage Joan in charge for the evening. “I’ll be fine.”

“—and don’t forget to call home when you get there,” she continues with no regard to his interruption. “Okay, I’ll see you on Monday. I love you.”

“Yeah, love you too,” Mark says in automatic response.

He offers a final goodbye to her as he gets his bags out of the back seat, and when she drives away he exhales an excited breath, ready for the weekend that awaits him.

* * *

Mark has been to Boston only once before: a few months ago when he and his parents had tied in a weekend of college visits with helping Joan move into her new apartment. There should be something a little scary about going to a place that is mostly unfamiliar to him, but he is too exhilarated at the thought of the adventure of it all to let nervousness overtake him as he navigates his way through the bus station.

He calls Joan as soon as he arrives to figure out where to meet her, and he has barely gotten off the phone when he spots her standing in front of a newsstand. Her hair is noticeably shorter than when he last saw her, and she has a new pair of glasses to replace the frames that she has had since she was a teenager, but he can still pick her out easily among the people traversing the station.

“Joanie!” he calls out to her with an enthusiastic wave.

He rushes toward her and hugs her tightly in greeting. She is an even better hugger than he remembers, although that may be only because he has missed her so much.

“Love the new haircut,” he says after they have let go of each other. “And the new glasses too. Damn, Grad School Joan is reinventing herself left and right.”

“Sometimes a little change is nice,” she replies. “How was the bus ride?”

“Good. I slept for an hour or so towards the end, but I’m totally awake now—”

“You always fall asleep during long car rides,” she says fondly.

“I _am_ kind of starving, though,” he continues. “Can I grab dinner somewhere on the way back to your place?”

“I ordered Chinese a couple of hours ago and made sure to get some for you too. I _do_ know you, after all.”

“Yesss. You’re the best.” Mark grins. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I can’t wait to see your place now that you’re all moved in.”

To his surprise, she leads him not to the station’s T stop or any other kind of public transportation, but instead to a parking garage. “I thought you said you hated driving in the city,” he says, remembering her complaints about the nonsensical city layout and aggressive Massachusetts drivers.

“I have to get used to it whether I like it or not,” Joan replies as she unlocks her car. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get to experience all the joys of Boston public transit at some point this weekend.”

Once they are both inside the car and are ready to make their way back to Joan’s apartment, Mark makes a bet with himself about which artist will be in Joan’s CD player. She gets her listening habits straight from their mother in terms of cycling through the same few albums while driving, and Mark’s guess is that either Radiohead or U2 is going to come out of the speakers when she starts the car. To his surprise, he hears neither of her go-to bands, and by the start of the next song he figures out that she is listening to Arcade Fire, a group that he is somewhat familiar with but only knows a couple of their songs.

“Oh, by the way,” says Joan once she has driven out of the parking garage. “I’m supposed to remind you to call home now that you’re here.”

“Ugh, of course you are,” Mark grumbles, although admittedly he would have forgotten without her reminder.

He takes out his cell phone and makes the call. There are a few too many rings on the other end of the line to make him think that his parents are sitting next the phone waiting to hear from him, and he wonders how long he could have gone without contacting them before they did so themselves, either worried sick that he might have died in a fiery bus crash or disappointed in him for not remembering to call.

“Bryant residence,” his dad says upon answering the phone.

“Hi, Dad,” Mark replies. “Just letting you know that I made it to Boston and Joan’s driving me to her apartment right now.”

“Good. Tell her that we say hi.”

“Will do.” Mark takes his phone away from his ear so that he can speak to Joan. “Dad says hi,” he tells her.

“Hi, Dad,” Joan calls across the front seat of the car, loud enough for Mark’s phone to pick up the sound of her voice.

“She says hi back, in case you didn’t hear that,” Mark says into his phone.

His dad has never been a long conversationalist on the phone, and so they skip straight to their farewells and one more wish for Mark to be safe. Now that he has taken care of his single obligation to his parents for this weekend, he can sit back, relax, and catch up with Joan in between serving as her navigator with the printed-out directions that will take them back to her apartment. He fills her in on everything that has been happening at home that they haven’t covered in their recent calls and emails, while she tells him about her grad school program and how she has befriended a woman who is the subject of one of her current research projects.

“Isn’t that breaking some kind of psychologist code of ethics?” Mark asks. “Aren’t you supposed to maintain a professional distance or whatever?”

“Us becoming friendly has no bearing on the results of my research,” she replies. “And a lot of it is being done… well, ‘under the radar’ is the best way I can think of to describe it.”

Mark raises his eyebrows. “Not even two months into grad school and you’re already doing super-secret psychological experiments on people, huh? My sister, the evil genius.”

Joan takes one hand off the steering wheel to lightly swat his arm. “You know it’s nothing like that.”

“Yeah, okay, evil genius.”

When they finally reach her apartment, Mark is pleased to see that she has worked to make the place homier since moving in four months ago. She keeps her living space much neater than he does, but it now carries a sense of lived-in-ness that makes it feel distinctly Joan-like. The walls are definitely a little too blank for his tastes, but even when she was younger she never plastered her bedroom with posters or artwork, unlike his own collection of music and movie posters that cover so much of his own walls.

“Is it just me, or does your apartment seem a lot smaller now that everything is fully set up?” he asks as he drops his bags in the living room, where they take up most of the floor space between the coffee table and the low shelving unit that the TV sits on top of. “Things are… cozy. Not that that’s a bad thing, of course.”

“When your criteria are ‘affordable to a grad student’ and ‘no roommates because you had enough of that in undergrad,’ you have to take what you can get,” Joan replies. “The Chinese food’s in the fridge, by the way,” she adds before he can ask.

“Awesome, thanks.”

He goes into the kitchen, which is barely wide enough to fit two people across, and opens the refrigerator. “What did you get me?” he asks as he takes out the containers.

“There’s an order of chicken fried rice, and I left some egg rolls and dumplings for you. You absolutely _have_ to try the dumplings. They’re probably the greasiest thing you’ll put in your body all weekend, but they’re _so_ good.”

“Well, that’s all the sales pitch I need.”

Mark reheats his meal and carries it into the living room to join Joan on the couch. “So are there any special someones in your life right now?” he asks, bringing up the ever-important topic of her love life that he hadn’t had a chance to interrogate her about in the car. “Maybe a cute guy that you met in your program or on campus and brought back here to your humble abode?”

“I’ve been taking some time to focus on settling into school and work, for your information.” A hint of self-righteousness enters Joan’s voice. “I didn’t go to grad school to find a boyfriend.”

“Right.” Mark draws out the word doubtfully. He takes a bite of one of the dumplings that Joan has so highly recommended to him. “And it’s definitely not because you’re still hung up on what’s-his-face,” he says, referring to the guy whom Joan had dated during her last year and a half of college until they broke up at the beginning of the summer as their post-grad lives pulled them in different directions.

Joan scowls. “I know you thought he was boring, but the least you can do is remember his name after all the times you encouraged me to vent my post-breakup feelings to you whenever we talked over the summer.”

“Oh my God, you’re right, these dumplings are _incredible_ ,” Mark says by means of deflection.

“Now you understand how hard it was for me to not eat all of them myself. Anyway, what about you?”

Mark starts in on another dumpling. “What about me, what?”

“Are you dating anyone? Do you have a girlfriend, or maybe a boyfriend?”

Her inclusion of “boyfriend” heartens him with the reminder that he made the right decision in having her be the first (and so far only) person he has come out to. “As thrilled as I am that you’re on board with the whole bisexuality thing, I don’t think you fully understand how much of a stir it would cause at school if I started dating a guy,” he says. “Things are very much on a direct scale of ‘straight as a board’ and ‘flamboyantly gay’ for most of them. I’m not sure they’d know what to do with ‘makes out with a ton of girls but also fantasizes about that really cute guy in his English class,’ even though it’s two-thousand-and-fucking-five and it shouldn’t be such a hard concept to grasp.”

A small frown appears on Joan’s face in her clear worry about how some people might treat him differently because of his sexuality. “Well, what about the ‘tons of girls’ that you’ve apparently been making out with?” she asks, moving past that difficult subject. “Don’t tell me you’ve been breaking more hearts.”

“There have been zero hearts broken this year,” Mark assures her. “And if you _have_ to know, there’s this girl Tori that I went with to homecoming, and we’ve kind of been a thing since then. She’s really fun and I like her a lot, but we’ve mostly just been messing around—”

“No, I don’t need to hear anything more about that.” Joan holds up a hand to silence him. “As far as I’m concerned, you’re still my innocent baby brother who doesn’t know what sex is.”

“Hey, relax. She and I haven’t even gone past second base yet.” He smirks as Joan buries her face in her hands in despair. “Anyway, I don’t think we’re going to be anything serious, but we’re having fun and that’s what counts, right?”

“As long as you’re both on the same page about it,” she says. Mark rolls his eyes at her advice when the only edge that she has over him in the romance department is that she has actually been in a serious relationship that has lasted longer than six months. 

“So do you have anything planned for us tonight, or are we just gonna hang out?” he asks after he has finished eating. Even though it is almost ten o’clock, as far as he is concerned the night is only just beginning. “I’m fine either way.”

“I got us a few movies for the weekend.” Joan gestures to the stack of DVD rentals next to the TV. “I figured now is as good a time as any to reinstate movie night.”

“Hell yes. I am one hundred percent on board with this plan.” Watching movies together was always a staple bonding exercise for them throughout Joan’s college years whenever she was home on break, and he has greatly missed those nights since she has moved out. “Actually, this would be the perfect time to give you your belated birthday present.”

“Oh, really?” He can hear the raised eyebrows of interest in her voice as he digs through his backpack for the gift. “I’m intrigued.”

Mark pulls out the rectangular wrapped package that he has brought with him. Joan’s twenty-second birthday was the previous Saturday, but with this visit so close they’d agreed that he’d just be several days late with his present rather than going through the trouble of mailing it to her. As she unwraps the gift, he bounces up and down in anticipation where he now sits next to her on the couch. The best part of giving presents is seeing the look of joy on the person’s face when he has succeeded in finding or creating something that is perfect for them, and Joan’s reaction in this moment is no exception.

“Oh my God, _Singin’ in the Rain_!” she exclaims at the DVD that she now holds in her hands. “An essential part of any movie collection.”

“I found it when I was at the mall a few weeks ago and couldn’t resist,” Mark says. “I remember you complaining about how you’re going to have to buy so many movies for yourself now that you can’t just raid Mom and Dad’s VHS tapes, so here’s one less that you have to get.”

“Well, thank you.” Joan pulls him into a quick one-armed hug. “And now I know what we’re watching tonight.”

“Only if the full singalong protocol is in effect,” Mark says, referring to their long-standing tradition of loudly and enthusiastically singing along to all of their favorite movie musicals.

“Oh, always.” Joan passes the DVD back to him and stands up from the couch. “Why don’t you set up the movie while I make some popcorn?”

“Sure thing,” Mark replies, already taking the plastic wrap off the DVD case. “I’ll try not to start without you.”

“Don’t you dare,” Joan calls to him from the kitchen.

He laughs as he goes over to the DVD player to insert the disc, and as the sound of her laughter joins in from the other room, he knows that this will be the start of an amazing weekend.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day brings a single school-related obligation for Joan before she and Mark fully jump into their weekend plans of hanging out and exploring the city together. Although she offers to let him stay at her apartment while she goes to campus to conduct a research session with her subject-slash-friend, Mark is happy to accompany her and spend some time wandering by himself while she is working.

“We’re usually no more than forty-five minutes to an hour,” Joan says as they walk through the halls of the social sciences building, where she is showing him to the room that she will be using so that he can find her later. “Most of the time we meet during Vanessa’s lunch break, so that limits us a little.”

“That should be more than enough time for me to get some good photos,” Mark replies. He has brought his camera with him to take what he is sure will become an entire album of pictures, and he hopes that he’ll be able to use some of them for an upcoming assignment for his photography class. “And then we’ll grab lunch after you’re done?”

Joan nods. “Sounds like a plan.”

She opens the door into what looks like an unoccupied classroom, one that would be used for small-group discussions rather than large lectures. It doesn’t seem like an exciting space to conduct research in, but Mark supposes that as a first-year masters student Joan doesn’t get access to prime academic real estate for her workspace.

“Make sure you’re back by around one o’clock,” says Joan. “I’ll leave my cell phone on in case you get lost and need help getting back here.”

Mark rolls his eyes. “I’ll be fine, Joanie. I’ll make sure not to go too far away.”

“All right. See you soon.”

“See you,” Mark echoes her.

He closes the door behind him and navigates his way out of the building, committing the return route to memory so that he doesn’t have to ask for directions later. Once he is outside, he breathes in the fresh air of opportunity and begins to scope out some possible photo spots. He almost feels like a real college student as he walks confidently down the sidewalk, occasionally stopping to snap a picture of something that catches his eye while imagining that he is an undergrad working on a photography project for Professor So-and-So. He can’t wait to have this kind of freedom after he graduates, with his school hours no longer regulated by bells and hall passes and his leisure time no longer subjected to parental scrutiny. As much as he has enjoyed his high school experience, he is more than ready to fully step out into the wider world of young adulthood.

The hour passes by quickly, and so Mark has to pull himself away from the dog that he has befriended outside the cafe where he’d stopped for a cup of coffee. He hurries back to the social sciences building and finds the research space that Joan is using, where he knocks on the open door frame after peering into the room. Upon catching his eye, Joan waves him in.

“Am I interrupting anything?” he asks when he sees that she is not alone. An unfamiliar woman sits at the table with her, and he assumes that she is the subject of Joan’s mysterious research project.

“No, we just finished up a few minutes ago,” Joan replies. She casts a glance at her companion. “Oh, I suppose I should introduce the two of you. Vanessa, this is my brother Mark. Mark, Vanessa.”

The first thing Mark notices about Vanessa is that she is a capital-A Adult, probably somewhere in her thirties, rather than the young adult that he’d erroneously expected. He supposes that Joan is now at a stage in her life where her friends aren’t always going to be her own age plus or minus a few years, but he still has to mentally shift all of his preconceived notions about this person that she has been working with.

“So you’re the famous Mark Bryant,” Vanessa says, offering a hand to him.

Mark shakes her hand. “I’m famous, huh?” he replies with a grin.

“Only because Joan’s told me so much about you.”

“Nothing too embarrassing, I hope.” He looks over at Joan, whose face remains impassive except for the twitch of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Because I have plenty of dirt on her that I will  _ absolutely  _ bring up if I need to.”

“I would  _ never  _ embarrass you,” Joan says, faux-scandalized. “What would ever make you think that?”

“Only spending my whole life with you as my big sister. But it also means that I learned from the best when it comes to embarrassing you.”

Vanessa chuckles appreciatively, unfazed by their sibling banter. “Anyway, Joan tells me that you’re graduating this spring. Are you thinking of going to school around here next year?”

“Maybe,” Mark replies. Thus lies the downside of being a high school senior: almost every conversation with an adult inevitably turns to the topic of his college plans. “I’m definitely applying to MassArt so I can be right here in the city with Joan, and then RISD is less than an hour away so I’d still kind of be close by. Everywhere else is a bit more of a hike.”

“Yes, Joan mentioned that you’re interested in art school.” Vanessa sounds far less skeptical of the idea than Joan had been when she’d first heard about his preliminary college plans. “Good for you. My daughter’s quite the budding artist as well. She’s had the art bug ever since she first got her hands into fingerpaints as a toddler. But she’s only ten right now, so who knows what she’ll be thinking when it’s time for her to head off to college.”

At first, Mark is too busy trying to wrap his mind around how Joan has an adult friend with a kid—and a kid who is only seven years younger than he is, on top of that—to become aware of anything strange happening in the room. He then sees Joan’s notebook floating in midair above the surface of the table with a blatant disregard for gravity that should be impossible. He tells himself that he must be imagining it and that maybe he didn’t get enough sleep last night, but then he catches sight of Joan’s frown as she too notices the notebook’s strange behavior.

“You shouldn’t be showing off in front of him, Vanessa,” she says. “I haven’t told him about the specifics of my research, and—”

“I’m not doing anything,” Vanessa replies, looking equally puzzled at the scene that Mark now knows is  _ definitely  _ not his imagination. A few pens, his coffee cup, two purses that must belong to Joan and Vanessa, and even a couple of chairs now float in perfect aerial suspension alongside the notebook. “I’m in complete control right now.”

“Then who’s—”

Both women turn to look at Mark. He stares back at them in confusion, his heart racing as his mind buzzes with a strange energy that he has never felt before. From there it only takes a few more seconds for everything to click into place with the realization that  _ he  _ is the one responsible for this seemingly impossible display of physics. The floating objects wobble in a reflection of his surprise, but they do not tumble to the floor.

“You never said anything about your brother being atypical,” says Vanessa. The last word has a certain weight to it that immediately makes Mark think that she is referring to something beyond the regular definition of “not normal.”

Joan continues to stare at Mark, her mouth half-open in shock. “I… I didn’t know,” she replies when she finds her voice.

“Didn’t know what?” Mark asks. His heart continues to pound in his chest as the objects start orbiting the room in a frantic circle.

“So you’re saying this has never happened before?”

“No, not that I know of—”

“What the hell is going on?” Mark demands, his voice breaking through Joan and Vanessa’s conversation.

Everything falls to the floor, pages fluttering and purses spilling their contents as if the spell has been broken with his frustrated outburst. Joan and Vanessa exchange glances like they are debating whether to let him in on a big secret, but neither of them say anything.

“Joanie,” he says, more quietly this time. “What’s going on?”

“There are some people in the world who are a little…  _ different  _ than your average human,” she begins with the tentativeness of someone who is choosing their words carefully. “They have special abilities that allow them to do things that should be impossible. They’re called atypicals, and I’ve been researching them with Vanessa’s help.”

Her words make him feel like he has been thrown to the floor alongside everything else, but he pushes through his overwhelmed emotions and turns his attention to Vanessa. “And you’re one of these… atypicals?” He hesitates around the word.

She nods. “I’m a telekinetic. And it looks like you might be one too.”

“Jesus.” Mark sinks down into one of the chairs that has not fallen over in the telekinetic storm. “I think I’m gonna need a minute to process this.”

He’s not sure if there's an established way for him to react to finding out that superpowers are real and that he apparently has them, but his primary thought is that he must be having a very strange dream and that any minute he will wake up on Joan’s couch. If this were only a dream, however, he suspects that he wouldn’t be thinking about how the past few minutes have picked up his life and turned it upside down, nor would he be experiencing a vague sense of terror beneath his confusion and excitement.

“Are you okay?” Joan asks him.

“Well, I just found out that I have secret powers, so it’s a bit of an emotional roller coaster right now,” he replies. He then laughs, not wanting to appear too worried. “Honestly, as far as superhero origin stories go, this one kind of sucks. When’s the ‘radioactive spider bite’ or ‘secretly from another planet’ reveal gonna happen?”

Joan’s face scrunches up with the look that she often gets when she is thinking hard about something. If her thoughts are anything like Mark’s, she must be mentally running through the past seventeen years to figure out if he has displayed any prior evidence of telekinesis. There have been several instances throughout his life where strange and unexplainable things have happened around him, but he has always chalked up those events to the weird quirks of the universe. None of them have been as clear-cut as what has happened here, where not only has he made multiple objects fly across the room, but he also has two people straight-out telling him that he has superhuman abilities rather than dismissing him as a kid with an overactive imagination.

“Why don’t I start cleaning some of this up?” Vanessa suggests.

The room looks like a small bomb went off in it, but she tidies everything with ease, putting everything that Mark has displaced back into its proper place. Even the upended contents of her purse find their way back inside and reorganize themselves, and Mark can only gape at the precision that goes far beyond what he has been able to do. The spilled coffee from his overturned cup does not clean up as easily, however, because apparently Vanessa’s telekinesis does not extend to pulling up liquid that has soaked into the thin carpet.

“I should scrub that before it leaves a stain and I get banned from using this room,” says Joan, sounding like she is only half-joking about the “getting banned” part.

Mark doesn’t expect to be able to remove the stain with his newfound superpowers if Vanessa has been unable to do so, but he decides to try anyway. The only thing he achieves is knocking over one of the chairs that Vanessa has put back into place, which earns him a glare from Joan. He shrugs sheepishly in response to how she likely thinks that he is just messing around.

“Sorry,” he says.

This time, he consciously harnesses the energy that buzzes in his mind. The chair rises from the floor and turns itself upright once more, and he carefully sets it down on all four legs as if he is guiding it with an invisible hand. A sense of accomplishment fills him at how he has successfully harnessed his power into something more constructive than trashing a room.

“I’ll go run to the ladies’ room and grab some paper towels,” Vanessa offers.

In the short amount of time that he has known her, Mark has formed the impression that she seems to be a cool enough person (and he definitely has a million questions for her about the whole telekinetic thing), but he is relieved that her brief departure allows him to speak to Joan more privately. After the door has closed behind her, he returns his attention to Joan, who continues to regard him with a combination of surprise and worry.

“So how long have you known about this whole ‘superpowers are real’ thing?” he asks her, deciding to lead with his most pressing question.

“Since last spring,” she replies. “I was doing some research for a paper I was writing, and I ended up going down a rabbit hole that led me to discussions about the existence of atypicals. Most of it was on the Internet, discussion forums and personal websites and things like that, but there were enough academic references to make me suspect that it wasn’t just hoaxes and urban legends. And then a couple of months ago I met Vanessa through pure coincidence, and she agreed to let me study her ability and the effects that it has on her for some extracurricular research. She works in admin here, so it’s easy for us to get together a couple times a week.”

Her explanation leaves Mark with more questions than answers, especially because he now must fit himself into this category of people that for all he knows could have existed for decades. It seems like a huge oversight on the universe’s part that this category of humanity has remained hidden for so long. He imagines an entire secret society of atypicals like the Wizarding world in Harry Potter, except his initiation into the atypical world has been a lot more anticlimactic than getting a Hogwarts acceptance letter. 

“Okay, but why don’t more people know about atypicals?” he asks. “If there really are all these people out there with special abilities, you’d think the word would get out beyond rumors on the Internet, right? I can’t believe  _ everyone  _ who has superpowers would keep quiet about it.”

“Well, I think a lot of atypicals choose to hide their abilities for their own safety,” says Joan. “Think about it. If you had seen Vanessa moving things with her mind with no knowledge that you can apparently do the same thing yourself, you probably would have been freaked out. And not all abilities are as benign as hers. Some of them can be dangerous for both the atypical and others around them, and obviously not everyone’s going to be okay with that.”

Mark shrugs. “I don’t know, I personally think that being able to move things with your mind is pretty fucking cool.”

“You’re not even a little scared about what just happened?” The concern returns to Joan’s face. “You said it yourself that it’s a lot to process. If it were me, I’d be terrified.”

“Well, yeah, it’s definitely weird to watch things fly around the room and realize that you’re the one doing it. But I’m okay. Really.” His heart has stopped pounding now that he has gained a better understanding of what is happening, and even the buzzing sensation that filled his mind while he’d been using telekinesis has abated. “So you can stop making that face at me, all right?”

“All right.” Joan consciously relaxes her expression at his request. “I’m just surprised that you seem to be taking all of this in stride.”

“Honestly, can you imagine me taking it any other way?” he says.

Joan allows herself a small smile. “I suppose not.”

The door opens with Vanessa’s return. “Here, I’ll take care of it,” Mark offers, taking the roll of paper towels from her. “Since I was the one who knocked everything over.”

He crouches down to sop up the spilled coffee as best as he can. Although the cup was only a quarter full when he knocked it over, he still laments the loss of those last several sips, not only because it was a good cup of coffee but also because of how expensive it was. He makes a mental note to be more careful around cups of liquid from now on, especially if they are housed in something far more breakable than a styrofoam cup with a plastic lid.

“There,” he says after disposing of the coffee-stained paper towels. “Sorry again about the mess.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Vanessa assures him. “I made much worse messes when my ability first presented itself. It might as well be a rite of passage for telekinetics.”

“I guess that means I’m officially part of the club now, huh?” he replies. “Do I get a membership card and a welcome basket?”

Vanessa laughs. “They’re all on backorder, unfortunately.” She then glances at the clock on the wall. “Well, as great as it was to meet you, Mark, I have to head back to work. We’ll meet at the same time next Tuesday, Joan?”

Joan nods distractedly. “Oh—yes, I’ll see you then,” she says after she has snapped out of her cloud of preoccupation.

“It was nice to meet you too,” Mark says to Vanessa. He wants to say “really fucking cool to meet you,” because he has genuinely enjoyed watching her use her ability and joking around with her about it, but he’s not entirely sure how “cool” this interaction has been when it has opened up so many complicated paths that he’s not sure he wants to explore.

“So what’s the standard way to spend the rest of the day after you find out that you can move things with your mind?” he asks Joan after Vanessa has departed. “Do you ask a million questions about it that probably can’t be answered, or do you go about your day like nothing happened?”

“For now, we’ll grab some lunch and pretend everything’s normal,” she replies. “We’ll worry about figuring all of this out after we get home.”

“Right. Normalcy it is, then,” he says, but he cannot escape the feeling that after today, “normal” may be a word that will never again apply to him.


	3. Chapter 3

“This is stupid, Joanie.”

Mark sits at the kitchen table in Joan’s apartment, staring at the three paper cups in front of him that are each filled with a small amount of water to weigh them down. He is supposed to be tipping them over using only his mind, but he has had no success so far. Whatever part of his brain he’d tapped into earlier in the day has clearly decided not to cooperate now that he is under pressure to use telekinesis on demand.

“I know you can do it,” Joan says. “Earlier you were able to make multiple objects fly around the room without even realizing it. This can’t be any more difficult than that. Just try to focus. Reach out to them with your mind.”

“This isn't like using the Force. I can’t just close my eyes and lift spaceships out of swamps,” Mark replies. “Maybe if we were working with something a little sturdier than paper cups, I’d have more luck.”

“I don’t want you knocking over anything breakable. Paper cups will have to do.”

“Yeah, whatever. Okay, here goes attempt number who the hell knows anymore.”

Mark closes his eyes and inhales deeply, focusing on the mental image of the row of cups falling over and spilling their contents onto the surface of the table. He does not sense any power racing through him, but he cracks open one eye anyway to check the results. To his disappointment, the cups remain firmly in place, not even wobbling a fraction of an inch. Despite his previous excitement about his newly revealed superpowers, right now he does not feel very super with his failure to do what had been so easy for him earlier in the day.

He opens both of his eyes again. “I seriously don’t think this is going to work,” he tells her. “It feels... I don’t know, _different_ from before.”

Joan frowns. “What do you mean by that?”

Mark tries to think of the best way to describe the sensation that had overwhelmed him when he’d realized that he was the one making everything fly around the room. “When we were with Vanessa, I got these weird… I don’t know, brain tingles,” he explains. “Like there was something buzzing in my head, but not like a headache or anything. But I don’t feel it right now, and maybe that’s why I can’t do anything.”

“Hmm. Maybe it has to do with being near another telekinetic. If those ‘brain tingles’ are connected to the use of telekinesis, maybe proximity to a similar power amplifies the sensation, and by itself it’s not enough for you to notice it.”

Mark understands the individual meaning of each word that leaves Joan’s mouth, but his brain is too fried to make sense of them. She is probably five seconds away from entering full-on science mode, and as fascinated as he is about how science apparently _can_ explain telekinesis, he is not in the mood to listen to her spout theories at him.

“I don’t fucking know, Joanie,” he says, slumping back in his chair in defeat. “But I _do_ know that this isn’t working, and I need a break.”

He gets up and walks toward the refrigerator. Rather than pouring himself a glass of water, he instead reaches for one of the bottles of beer that he’d noticed last night. He’s not sure whether Joan will let him get away with taking one of her drinks, but as far as he’s concerned there’s no point in having a sister who is above the legal drinking age if he cannot score free beer from her.

“What are you doing?” Joan asks upon seeing the bottle in his hand.

“Getting a drink,” he replies innocently.

She raises her eyebrows. “Did you magically become four years older when I wasn’t paying attention?”

“Senior year of high school ages you very quickly, you know,” Mark quips. At Joan’s continued look of skepticism, he continues with, “Jeez, don’t be such a square. You _know_ I’ve had alcohol before.”

“Among other things,” says Joan with a combination of amusement and disapproval. “Have we already forgotten about the Halloween 2003 incident? Or—what was it that you called it? ‘High’-loween?”

Mark rolls his eyes at her smug teasing. “Oh my God, you’re never going to let me live that down, are you? Besides, you stress-smoke cigarettes sometimes, so you’re not allowed to judge me.”

“Emphasis on the ‘sometimes,’ and it’s not the same thing at all,” Joan insists. “But fine, I’ll let you have one beer. Just don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

Mark pops the lid off the bottle. “What would I even say to them? That you practically forced the bottle into my hand because you’re such a terrible influence?” He laughs. “Trust me, what Mom and Dad don't know won't hurt them.”

“I shudder to think what else you could be hiding from them,” says Joan. “Will you get me a drink too while you’re over there?”

He obliges, passing an opened beer bottle to her when he returns to the kitchen table. There’s something very grown-up about sitting here drinking alcohol in his sister’s apartment with no worries about parental interruptions or making it home in time for curfew. It once again makes him long for the freedom of adult life, even though he knows that being a grown-up probably isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

He takes a long drink and sets his bottle down on the table. Struck with a wild idea, he tries to channel his telekinetic energy again, this time focusing on the bottle. It remains as immobile as the paper cups, and so he is left staring intently at it while looking vaguely constipated.

“I thought you said you were giving up for now,” Joan says, thankfully understanding that he is attempting to tap into his secret superpowers and not taking a shit at the table.

“I don’t know, I thought that maybe alcohol would make it work better.” Mark takes another drink. “Guess I can cross that possibility off the list. Unless I need to get wasted or something.”

“You are _not_ getting wasted on my watch,” Joan replies firmly. “I’m already skeptical enough of letting you have this one drink.”

He laughs. “Oh my God, I was mostly joking. Calm down.”

A brief silence passes between them as they both continue to drink. Joan has her Focus Face on, the look that she always gets when she is studying or doing homework. Her mind must be moving a million miles a minute, brimming with all of her science-brain thoughts to find an explanation for why she has such a strange and unusual brother. _You’ve always been a little strange_ , she’d tease him in different circumstances, but now the two of them are dealing with something that goes far beyond her usual reasons for calling him weird.

“Are you _sure_ you haven’t done anything like this before today?” she asks.

“I’m pretty sure I’d remember being able to move things with my mind,” he says. “I mean, weird stuff has definitely happened around me before,” he adds, remembering what had crossed his mind while initially adjusting to the idea of having a superpower. “But none of it was telekinesis.”

“Weird stuff happening around you…” Joan trails off as she taps a finger against the side of her bottle a few times in an absent gesture. With no further words to him, she retrieves their shared notebook from the living room, where it has been sitting on the coffee table since this morning when Mark read the most recent message that she has written to him.

“What, you think you’re going to find answers in there?” he asks, unsure of what can be gleaned from the doodles and notes that they have been exchanging for over a decade.

“If anything strange happened when we were younger, you probably would have written about it in here, especially if Mom and Dad were home and you wanted to tell me about it without them overhearing.” Joan flips through the first several pages, past her own notes painstakingly written in crayon and his blocky, misshapen kindergarten handwriting. “Here,” she says after she has progressed deeper into the notebook, where crayons have been replaced by colorful pens and fine-point markers. “You mentioned walking through a closed bathroom door at school.”

She passes the notebook across the table to him. Judging from his handwriting, he was around seven or eight years old during the event that his younger self has chronicled, when he’d felt his body being squeezed tightly before finding himself on the other side of the bathroom door without opening it. The rest of the written conversation breezes straight past any further examination of what happened in favor of discussing whether Mark is cooler than Spider-Man for being able to walk through a door, which does not provide much help for his current situation.

“That doesn’t really sound like telekinesis, though,” he says. “If I’d mentioned being able to open the door without touching it, maybe we’d be on to something, but it was probably like you told me in the notebook. Someone else opened the door for me, and then I made up a story about walking through the door because apparently my life wasn’t interesting enough when I was in second grade.”

“Well, then let’s keep looking.”

Joan moves to sit next to him at the table so they can look through the notebook together. As much as Mark wants to read everything and laugh at the silly things that they wrote to each other when they were younger, he instead follows her lead of only skimming the pages until he finds something worth mentioning.

“What about this?” he says. He reads aloud from a page that has caught his attention. “‘We were playing out in the field and this stupid eighth grader came over and started making fun of us. And then the stupid eighth grader grabbed the Ouija board and threw it. So I pushed him. Except he flew really high in the air and landed on his back.’” He puts specific emphasis on the last sentence. “Do you think that could have been telekinesis?”

Joan frowns as she reads the entire account for herself, which describes how Mark had received a detention for confronting a bully and pushing him too hard on the playground. “I’m not sure,” she replies. “Do you remember exactly how it happened? Did the boy actually fly in the air when you pushed him, or were you just exaggerating things?”

Although Mark does remember the incident beyond what he had written several years ago, most of his memories are limited to how unfair it was that _he_ was the one who got in trouble when the other boy had started the fight. “I don’t think I made him float or anything,” he says. “And I’m pretty sure I _did_ physically push him. It wasn’t like I looked at him and he immediately went flying backwards.”

“Hmm.” Joan reads the page again, as if she will find the answer hidden between his poorly-spelled words. “Maybe your ability kicked in after you’d already pushed him.”

“Okay, but even if I did actually use telekinesis back in middle school, that doesn’t explain why I could use it before but can’t right now,” Mark says. “Unless I’ve used up all my telekinetic energy for the day and I have to wait until tomorrow for it to recharge or something like that.”

Joan looks doubtful, but she does not say anything to disprove his theory. He wishes he had some kind of guidebook to tell him how these things are supposed to work, but then he remembers Joan’s research with Vanessa and how it might hold the answers he needs

“Do you know if the same thing happens with Vanessa?” he asks. “Or if it was like this for her when she first found out that she’s telekinetic?”

“I’ve never seen her have any difficulties with her ability while I’ve been working with her,” says Joan. “I’d have to ask her about it. Maybe I should give her a call and see if the three of us can meet up sometime this weekend. We might be able to figure this out a little more easily if we have someone who has gone through the experience of coming into an atypical ability.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great.”

Visions of their previously established plans for the weekend play out in his mind, and none of them involve “figuring him out” like he is a problem that needs to be solved. Joan lays an encouraging hand on his shoulder, perhaps sensing the lack of enthusiasm in his response.

“We’re not going to let us ruin our weekend, okay?” she says. “I promise. If you want, we can forget about everything atypical for the rest of the day and worry about it later.”

He nods. “Thanks, Joanie. For being so… I don’t know. Cool about this, I guess.”

Joan raises her eyebrows. “Are you finally admitting that I’m actually cool?”

“Are you kidding? You’re letting me drink with you.” He holds up his bottle of beer. “That earns you like a hundred cool points.”

She lifts her bottle too, as if she is making a toast. “Well, then here’s to achieving coolness through encouraging underage drinking,” she says, and they clink their bottles together and drink.

* * *

True to Joan’s word, they do not discuss anything about his ability for the rest of the day, and Mark has almost convinced himself that today has been completely normal and that he doesn’t possess a hidden power that makes him different from the average person. Later that night, however, all of his worries and curiosities come rushing back to shatter his illusion that he is totally fine with what he has learned about himself.

He is lying on the couch snuggled comfortably under the spare blankets, reading by the light of the single lamp that remains switched on in the living room. It is almost one in the morning, and with Joan having gone to bed an hour ago he is now trying to lull himself to sleep with the assigned chapters of _Heart of Darkness_ that he has to read by Tuesday for his English class. He can neither drift into slumber nor focus on the words on the page when his mind is moving too fast for him to keep up, and so soon he has no choice but to put the book aside.

He thinks about what he would be doing if he were home right now and remembers that there was supposed to be a big house party tonight. It would probably still be going strong at this hour, and he’d be right in the middle of everything, pleasantly drunk or high or both and blissfully unaware that he has any kind of superpowers. Or maybe his ability would have presented itself today regardless of where he is, and he would have ended up performing one hell of a party trick in front of everyone as he makes cups and bottles fly out of people’s hands. If things had happened that way, even he himself would have dismissed it by the next morning as a sign that he’d _really_ been out of his mind, especially because he wouldn’t have Joan with him to reveal that there are indeed people in the world who possess special abilities.

Briefly, he considers calling Tori or Josh or any of his other friends to check on the state of the party. He imagines them passing a cell phone between them as they all say hi to him, and then he’d drop the bomb of “So apparently I have superpowers now.” They’d think he was only messing with them, of course, and he’d laugh along with them like he is playing an April Fools prank on them six months early. He wouldn’t bother insisting that it’s the truth, because no one will ever believe him when he has always been known as a guy who jokes about everything. It hurts a little that this massive revelation that has been dumped into his lap will only be seen as a bad joke and over-exaggeration to anyone who was not present for that fateful moment, and now he has an entire portion of his identity that most of the people in his life will never know or understand.

Mark rises from the couch and walks into the kitchen. Joan will notice if he takes another one of her beers, and so instead he searches to see if she has anything stronger hidden away. After opening and closing a few cupboards, he finds a shelf with a couple of bottles of liquor. The whiskey bottle is close enough to empty that he’d feel bad drinking from it, but the vodka bottle still has half its contents—more than enough for him to sneak a drink with Joan being none the wiser.

He pours a small amount into an empty glass and mixes it with some orange juice that he finds in the fridge. He takes a sip to test his creation and is relieved to discover that he has not made it too strong. Getting secretly drunk at one A.M. at his sister’s apartment because he can’t sleep would be a little _too_ messy for his liking.

After making sure that he has put everything away exactly where he found it, he settles back onto the couch with his drink. He sees the TV remote lying on the coffee table and reaches toward it with his mind on the off chance that maybe his telekinesis will work this time, but when he has no success he begrudgingly leans forward to grab it with his hand like a regular human being. He turns on the TV and immediately lowers the volume to avoid waking Joan. Not wanting to have to squint at the screen as he flips through the channels, he retrieves his glasses from where he has left them in their case and puts them on. He then pulls his blankets more tightly around him where he sits huddled on the couch and settles into the mindlessness of a late-night talk show.

Around ten minutes later, he hears Joan’s bedroom door open. She soon comes into the view of the lamp next to the couch, and although she is dressed in pajama pants and an old T-shirt, she does not look half-asleep enough for him to have woken her up.

“I thought I heard you still up,” she says. “Everything okay?”

“Can’t sleep,” he replies.

“Me neither.” Joan takes a couple steps closer to him. “Mind if I join you?”

Mark pats the empty space next to him on the couch in a wordless invitation. She sits down, and he drapes the end of the blankets across her lap. They sit in a comfortable silence together, needing only each other’s company and the background noise of late-night TV to take their minds off the insomnia that troubles both of them tonight.

“It’s okay to be scared, you know,” Joan eventually says.

“You know, as hard as it may be for you to believe, I’m not a little kid anymore who’s afraid of not being able to sleep,” Mark replies.

She rolls her eyes in good-natured annoyance. “That’s not what I’m talking about. I meant about what happened today.”

“I know.”

He takes a drink from his glass, which Joan eyes suspiciously at the oddness of him drinking what appears to be merely orange juice in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s the alcohol that is now in his system, but everything that is keeping him awake bubbles at the surface of his emotions, ready for him to confess in his standard practice of being open and honest with Joan about almost everything in his life. This conversation feels more difficult than many of the other times that he has sought her comfort and advice, however. It reminds him of how nervous he’d been to come out to her earlier this year, when he’d been so worried that she would reject him or treat him differently for liking guys as well as girls even though all signs pointed to her having no problem with it. This time, he is not as concerned about being rejected, but he _is_ worried that she will become even more protective of him now that she knows that he belongs to a secret subset of humanity.

“I’m not scared, exactly,” he admits, setting down his glass. “It’s just weird to think about going back to my regular life now that I know what I can do. It’s not like I can tell people, right? They’d never believe me. And I don’t need yet _another_ thing that makes me different from what people see as the default.”

Joan nudges him teasingly with her foot. “Are you sure you’re my brother, Mark Bryant, the guy who always loves to stand out in a crowd?”

“Joanie,” he says quietly, and that is all he needs to say to let her know how serious he is.

“I’m sorry.” She moves closer to him so that she can put an arm around him. “I didn’t mean to be dismissive.”

“It’s okay.”

He leans against her and closes his eyes, remembering when he was little and would seek solace from her in the middle of the night after a bad dream or during a loud thunderstorm. His parents were never unsympathetic to his childhood fears, but whenever he went to them at those times it would always end with his mom or dad taking him by the hand and leading him back to his bedroom, where they would tuck him into bed with soothing words before leaving him to face the rest of the night alone. Joan, however, would always let him climb into bed with her and stay for as long as he needed. Even when they grew older and her childhood twin-sized bed became more of a tight squeeze for them to share comfortably, he’d still sometimes drag his pillows and blankets into her room and sleep on the floor, whispering with her in the darkness like they’re having a sleepover. Tonight feels like a throwback to those nights, except the thing keeping him awake is much bigger and stranger than anything that they could have imagined back then.

“Do you really think it’s possible for me to keep what I can do a secret?” he asks. “I know you said it’s safer for most atypicals to hide their abilities. But what if I use telekinesis without realizing it again, and people notice? The cat’s pretty much out of the bag at that point.”

“You’ll just have to be careful.” Joan gives his shoulder an extra squeeze in reassurance. “Because _nobody_ should know about this. Not your friends, not anyone you’re dating, not even Mom and Dad.”

There are already many things that their parents don’t know about him—that he’s bisexual, that he lost his virginity over a year ago, that he drinks alcohol and smokes pot on most weekends—and so one more secret won’t be hard for him to conceal, especially when his parents are barely around most of the time. He supposes he can manage not telling his friends too, as long as the scenario that he’d imagined earlier where he accidentally lets loose his telekinesis at a party does not become a reality. And as for any future girlfriends or boyfriends—well, he feels like finding out your partner has superpowers can only elicit the two polar reactions of “Wow, that’s sexy” and “Wow, you’re crazy,” and he certainly does not want to risk receiving the latter response.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll do my best to keep it between us. And Vanessa, I guess,” he adds, and it’s strange to think about how he now shares this huge new thing in his life with someone whom he has known for less than twenty-four hours.

“Good. And we’ll figure all of this out soon, all right? Even if getting together with Vanessa doesn’t help, I’ll do everything I can to make sure you know what’s going on with your ability.”

“Thanks,” Mark replies, unable to escape the guilty feeling that Joan now must do so much for his sake on top of an already demanding grad school program. Briefly he wonders if he would do the same for her if they were in opposite positions, but then he realizes that he shouldn’t even need to ask himself that question when she has been his best friend in the world for as long as he can remember.

He lets her arm around his shoulders turn into a full hug, and the warmth of her embrace does its usual job of easing his worries. After she lets go of him, her attention returns to his drink that remains on the coffee table. Before he can process what she is about to do, she has grabbed the glass and is lifting it toward her mouth.

“Hey—” he begins. He reaches to stop her, but she leans away from him, holding him off with one hand while taking a drink with the other.

“There’s alcohol in this, isn’t there?” she says after she has swallowed.

“Alcohol? Oh my God, how did that get there?” Mark replies with a gasp of fake outrage.

Joan shakes her head in exasperation. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I’d be drinking a lot more than this if I was home and at a party with my friends,” he points out. “So if you think about it, you’re actually doing me a service here.”

He reaches for the glass again, and she reluctantly passes it back to him. “Just don’t make a habit of drinking when you can’t sleep, okay?” she says. “There are much better ways to relax that don’t involve raiding my kitchen for alcohol.”

Mark takes another drink. He only feels a trace of a buzz after consuming half of the glass’s contents, which is a completely disappointing level of intoxication that usually prompts him to drink faster so that he can cross the line into pleasant tipsiness. Tonight, however, he accepts that Joan is right about alcohol not being the best thing to quell his insomnia. He therefore returns the glass and its handful of remaining swallows to her, even though he does not expect her to drink it.

“I’ll just put this in the fridge for now,” she says as she stands up from the couch. “I’d dump it out, but—”

“—you can’t let good alcohol go to waste,” Mark finishes for her. “Trust me, I know.”

Joan goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water for him, from which he takes a sip before she can lecture him about staying properly hydrated. “You’ll be okay?” she asks him.

He nods. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

“No problem. Try to get some sleep, all right?”

“Yeah, I will. ‘Night, Joanie.”

She echoes his words of goodnight and heads off to her bedroom. Mark takes another drink of water before setting the glass on the coffee table and stretching his body across the length of the couch. He turns off the TV and the lamp and lies there with his blankets pulled up toward his chin as he stares at the ceiling. Deciding that the current situation calls for his iPod, he retrieves it from where he has tucked it away in his bag. Its screen glows against the darkness of the room as he scrolls through his music to find something to listen to, and he lets himself drift away with familiar melodies and lyrics until he has fallen into a slumber filled with thoughts and images of powers that should be impossible.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day happens exactly how Mark imagined it playing out before telekinesis came into the picture. He and Joan spend a few hours at the Museum of Fine Arts, followed by a walk through the MassArt campus even though he has already done an official tour back in June with his parents. As he explores the city, Mark feels completely normal compared to yesterday: no tingling sensations in his head, no power rushing through his body, no suddenly floating objects. He is relieved that all of the weirdness that happened yesterday has not completely overtaken what was supposed to be a stress-free weekend, but the reprieve from everything atypical vanishes the next day when Vanessa comes over at Joan’s invitation.

“Mark, can you pick up your dirty clothes and throw them in your bag or something?” Joan asks, fussing around the apartment before Vanessa’s arrival. “It’s bad enough that _I_ have to look at them. I don’t want to subject Vanessa to them too.”

Mark obediently gathers his clothes from the past two days that are strewn across the floor of the living room. “Chill out,” he tells her. “She’s your friend. She’s not gonna judge you for having a slightly messy apartment.”

“It’s her first time coming over. I want to make a good impression.”

“Ah, that explains so much,” Mark says, now recognizing the clear signs of her desire to impress someone. “Still, she doesn’t strike me as a judgmental person. You’ll be fine.”

Despite his attempts to reassure her, Joan continues to stress-clean the apartment until the moment that Vanessa arrives. She shoves a pile of clutter at him before rushing off to let her in, leaving Mark standing in the middle of the room with an armful of old mail and other assorted junk that has accumulated on an end table.

“What the hell do I do with these?” he calls out to Joan.

“I don’t know, just put them away somewhere,” she replies on her way out the door.

Mark tosses them into a drawer, hoping that she will not yell at him later for not reading her mind and knowing exactly where to put her stuff. He then returns the vacuum to the closet despite not being told to do so, and by the time Joan comes back with Vanessa all evidence of her hurried tidying-up has vanished.

“It’s a little small,” Joan says, as if she has to apologize for the size of her apartment. “But I couldn’t have us meet anywhere public, even on campus.”

“I think it’s cozy,” replies Vanessa. “It’s a hell of a lot better than my first apartment was. Now _that_ place was a real dump. Hi, Mark,” she then says upon noticing his presence.

“Hey.” He lifts a hand in a greeting to her. “Good to see you again.”

As the three of them settle themselves around the kitchen table, Mark takes note of any strange sensations in his body that match what he’d felt on Friday. The faint buzzing in his head has returned, as if he is filled with static energy that has not yet found a means of release. He tries to harness this growing power, but his grip on the feeling slips away before he can do anything with it.

“Thanks for taking the time out of your weekend to come here,” Joan says to Vanessa.

“Oh, it’s no problem,” she replies. “Chloe’s at a friend’s house, so I’ve got a kid-free day ahead of me. And I’m happy to help out. Lord knows I would have appreciated having another telekinetic around to talk to when my ability first started.”

“How’d you find out that you’re an atypical?” Mark asks. Then, afraid that he has breached some kind of etiquette that surrounds asking people about their abilities, he adds, “Oh, sorry, is that cool to ask?”

“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” Vanessa assures him. “And it started when I was around eleven or twelve, although back then it wasn’t very consistent or powerful. I’d mostly just knock things off shelves or tables by accident. Things didn’t really start in earnest until my late teens, and it wasn’t until my early twenties that I had everything mostly under control.” She hesitates around the word “mostly,” but she presses onward before Mark can ask her whether it’s normal for people to take multiple years to gain complete control over an ability. “I thought I was going crazy the first few times that it happened, though. For a while I was convinced there was a ghost in my house, because it was easier for me to believe that than the possibility that I had telekinetic powers.”

“That sounds similar to how it might have started with you, Mark,” says Joan. “Especially the lack of consistency. If it takes several years to go from the early stages of exhibiting an ability to being able to use it on command—”

She breaks off when the unused chair at the table rises into the air now that Mark has finally focused his ability enough to turn the vibrations in his head into motion. He hasn’t meant to make such a dramatic display, but he’d overshot his target while reaching toward the vase of flowers in the middle of the table. 

“Well,” he says. “That answers a few of my questions right there.”

“You had to start big, didn’t you?” Joan rolls her eyes. “You couldn’t even knock over a paper cup the other day, but now you’ve gone straight to throwing chairs around again.”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Mark says. He sets down the chair, now becoming more aware of how to wrap his mind around the shape of the objects he is moving so that they obey him. “And I’m starting to think that maybe it was just a fluke that I couldn’t do anything the other night. I don’t feel like I’m forcing it anymore. It just happens whenever I want it to.”

He lifts the vase to illustrate his point, zeroing in on his telekinetic target so that nothing else moves as collateral damage. Growing more confident in his skills, he stretches out his mental grip to make the vase revolve on the spot, slowly turning where he holds it in midair. Both Joan and Vanessa regard it with apprehension, as if they are waiting for it to fall at any moment, but he is able to maintain his hold without much difficulty.

“That’s some impressive control,” says Vanessa. “It took me much longer than just a few days with my ability to be able to do precise movements like that at will.”

“Guess I’m just exceptional.”

He does not mean to be cocky about it, but he likes being told that he has a natural aptitude for something. Now that he seems to have overcome his mental block from a couple of nights ago, his telekinetic powers come as easily to him as all of the other skills he possesses, like how he immediately feels at home framing a shot behind a camera or turning lines and curves into a sketch. 

“So walk me through what happened,” Vanessa says. “Joan says that after you came home on Friday, you weren’t able to use your ability?”

He nods. “No matter how hard I tried to make stuff move, nothing happened. It was like whatever I’d been able to tap into wasn’t there anymore. Do you know if atypical abilities have, like, a recharge time or something, especially when you’re first starting out?”

Vanessa frowns. “Hmm. It’s not something I’ve personally encountered, but—”

“Hold on,” Joan interrupts her. She rushes off to the desk that is squeezed into the corner of the living room and returns to the table with the same notebook that she’d had with her on campus on Friday.

“Oh my God, of course you’re taking notes,” Mark mutters, simultaneously amused by and exasperated with her diligence.

“It could be important data for later,” she says as she opens the notebook and writes a heading on the page.

“Anyway,” Vanessa continues, “you shouldn’t worry. Just because I haven’t heard of this particular limitation doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with your ability. You might just be having a different experience in coming into your telekinesis.”

Her explanation sounds sensible enough, but Mark doesn’t completely buy it. “What does it feel like when you use your ability?” he asks, figuring that any question is fair game at this point. “Because I’ve noticed these weird tingles in my brain ever since I found out what I can do. First the other day when I met you, and then now. Like right this second, actually, even though I’m not doing anything.”

“There’s definitely a mental sensation that goes along with my ability,” says Vanessa. “But I only ever feel anything when I’m actively using it. I think of it as harnessing the energy inside me to reach out toward whatever I’m trying to move.”

“Yeah, that’s a good way to describe it. It’s like having all of this extra energy in my head that needs to get out somehow.”

Next to him at the table, Joan is scribbling her observations into her notebook. He peers over to catch a glimpse of what she is writing, but the only thing he can clearly read is the page heading of “Mark and Vanessa, 10/9/05.” She taps her pen against the paper, her face a mask of concentration as an indicator that the gears in her head are spinning quickly.

“Have you ever heard of proximity to another atypical affecting someone’s ability?” she asks Vanessa. “Making it stronger, for example. Is it possible that putting you and Mark together amplifies his capabilities, which is why he has less success on his own?”

“What, so you’re saying I’m useless unless I’m with another telekinetic?” Mark resists the urge to telekinetically yank the pen out of Joan’s hand just to mess with her.

“I’m just throwing ideas out there,” she says. “I’m not an expert on these things. Anyway, what do you think, Vanessa?”

“Hey, I’m not an expert either,” she replies. “And I’ve never experienced any changes in my ability with another atypical around, but it never hurts to test things out. I can try going out into the hall and see if that makes a difference.”

“If you don’t mind,” Joan says. “Just for a minute or two.”

Vanessa rises from the table and walks toward the door. After the door has closed behind her, Joan looks at Mark expectantly. Without any further prompting from her, he focuses the energy inside him to move the vase again. The vibrations in his head have grown less pronounced with Vanessa’s departure, and so he struggles to mentally reach out toward the vase despite his ease in lifting it a couple of minutes ago. The most he can do is make it wobble weakly, causing the flowers to sway like they have been disturbed by a light breeze.

“Well, that’s something, at least,” says Joan. “How does it feel compared to before?”

“Like I can barely get a hold on it.” Mark tries again, paying closer attention to the sensations in his mind and body. “It’s—ugh—it’s starting to give me a headache, actually. Like my brain is trying to latch onto something, but it can’t find it so it’s just kind of short-circuiting. If that makes any sense at all.”

Joan writes down a few more notes as he speaks. “If it hurts, don’t push it. I don’t want you to overexert yourself.”

Mark consciously relaxes his mind with a deep breath. “But now we know my powers have to be tied to proximity, right? There’s no other reason why I can barely move things now that Vanessa has left the room. So does that make me only a part-time telekinetic or something?”

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” The frown of concentration has not left Joan’s face. “It’s just so unusual. I haven’t been studying atypicals for very long, and I only have one case study and various anecdotal accounts, but if there are in fact abilities that are conditional in their activation, that flies in the face of so much of my understanding of atypicals—”

“Maybe it’s a ‘power with a price’ kind of thing,” Mark suggests before she goes into full science mode. “Vanessa _did_ say that I have great control for someone who’s so new to this. It could just be nature’s way of balancing things out. Like ‘Yeah, you’re a powerful telekinetic, but you can only do it when you’re around other telekinetics.’ Kind of a shitty trade-off, if you ask me.”

Joan makes a vague noise of agreement, as if she is only half-listening to him. “I should go get Vanessa from the hall,” is all she says.

She stands up and leaves the table. In her absence, Mark focuses all of his energy on the pen that lies across her open notebook, hoping that he will have more success with a smaller target. Although initially he can do nothing more than make it roll over in a half-hearted, pathetic motion, the vibrations in his mind grow stronger after the door has opened with Vanessa’s return, which allows him to mentally grasp the pen with a firmer grip. Remembering a scene from _Matilda_ that is ingrained into his head from both the movie and all the times that Joan would read the book to him before he was old enough to read it himself, he pretends that the pen is a piece of chalk upon the blackboard as he forms the shape of letters upon the page. By the time Joan and Vanessa have returned to the table, he is finishing up a simple message of _Hi Joanie_ , shakily written but still readable. Joan snatches the pen out of midair from where it now hovers above the notebook, and this time Mark gives into the temptation of telekinetically stealing it back from her.

“It came back, I see,” she says, scowling at his theft of her pen. He floats it back over to her even though he could just as easily pass it to her with his hands, because if his telekinesis is indeed a limited-time thing he wants to take full advantage of it while he can.

“Yep,” he replies. “When you guys came back in, I started feeling the brain tingles more strongly, and now…” He picks up Joan’s notebook this time, keeping it just out of her reach until she is able to grab it more quickly than his reflexes can respond.

“Okay, you have _got_ to stop doing that,” she tells him.

“Oh, let him have his fun,” Vanessa says. “I was the same way when my ability started. I used to drive my mom crazy until the novelty wore off.”

“I don’t think the novelty is ever going to wear off,” says Mark, grinning as he scans the room for the next item that he can torment Joan with.

Joan sighs in exasperation. “Why don’t I make us all some tea while we start brainstorming about what exactly is going on here?”

Mark isn’t sure how much more there is to discuss when they have firmly established that he seems to be only telekinetic while in Vanessa’s company, but he lets Joan talk through all of her thoughts regardless. As if she is determined to stamp out all of the exciting newness of his ability, she makes him pick up the same book over and over again, taking note of how easily the telekinesis comes to him depending on how close he is to Vanessa. What he enjoys more is having the opportunity to ask Vanessa some of the many questions that he has had since meeting her, which include “Does your daughter have superpowers too?”, “Have you ever really messed up with your ability and caused major property damage?”, and “Can you use telekinesis for, you know, sexy purposes?” (to which her responses are “Not right now, but there’s a chance that she will so I’m keeping an eye out,” “Yes, but I’m not comfortable talking about it right now,” and “You’re definitely too young for me to answer that.”). The way that Joan nearly chokes on her tea when he asks the last question tells him that she probably regrets allowing this question-and-answer session to happen.

An hour and a half later, they are no closer to any solutions or explanations to the unusual nature of Mark’s ability, and he is exhausted from flexing his “telekinesis muscles,” as Vanessa calls them. He is ready to put his head down on the table and take a nap by the time she is getting ready to leave, a fatigue to which she is sympathetic after having gone through the same thing when first coming into her ability years ago.

“I’m sorry that meeting me ended up being part of a huge, life-altering revelation for you,” she says. “But it _has_ been nice getting to know you.”

“Yeah, you too,” he replies. “Thanks for coming here and helping Joan and me figure things out.”

“No problem. I only wish we could have better answers for you.”

“We have a start, at least,” says Joan. “It’s definitely better than nothing. I’ll see you at our regular time on Tuesday, Vanessa?”

“Sure thing,” she replies. “Thanks for having me over. And best of luck to you, Mark.”

Mark is unsure whether it bodes well for him that his ability is something that he needs to be wished good luck about. “Yeah, thanks,” is all he can say to her before she takes her leave. Soon every trace of his ability has faded with her departure until he feels no different than he did a few days ago before all of this atypical business began—even though in his heart he knows that _everything_ has changed.

* * *

“Are you sure you have everything?” Joan asks Mark for what feels like the thousandth time when she sees him off at the bus station on Monday morning.

“Yes,” he replies wearily. If he’d known that letting her come inside the station with him would mean listening to her channel their mother with her nagging questions, he would have said his goodbyes to her at the car.

“I’m not going to go home and find your dirty underwear under my couch or something?”

“First of all, gross. Second of all, you made me check and double check my bags before we left. I’m pretty sure I’m all set.”

“‘Pretty’ sure?” she teases him.

Mark sighs in exasperation. “One hundred percent sure.”

“Good.” Satisfied with his level of confidence, she says, “Well, have a safe trip home, then. I won’t make you call me when you get there—”

“How generous of you,” Mark interjects.

“—because I’m sure that if you didn’t make it home for whatever reason, I’d be getting _many_ worried phone calls from Mom and Dad,” she finishes. “And if anything happens with you-know-what before I see you next, let me know, all right?”

He nods, following her lead in not speaking freely about his newfound ability while in a public space. “It’s not like I’d be able to tell anyone else about it. And hey, maybe this will finally be what gets you to join the twenty-first century and get yourself on AIM?” he says in his ongoing quest to have an additional method of communicating with her whenever they are apart.

“It’s much more convenient for me to just call you,” Joan replies. “I’m not always going to be able to get on the Internet and talk. Besides, I feel like I’m too old for that kind of thing.”

Mark laughs. “Oh my God, you’re only twenty-two. You’re not ancient. But fine, we can keep calling and emailing like it’s 1998 or something.”

“There’s no point in changing a good thing.” She ruffles his hair affectionately like she used to do all the time when they were younger, even though she now has to reach up to do so.

“Ugh, you’re embarrassing me,” he grumbles, but he does not push away her hand.

She waits until he has smoothed down his hair to pull him into a hug. “I’ll see you when I come home for Thanksgiving,” she says. “And in the meantime, I’ll keep looking into… well, everything from this weekend.”

“Thanks.” He squeezes her tightly in his gratitude before letting go of her. “I had a really great time, even with all of the weirdness that happened.”

“Just be careful, okay? _Promise_ me you’ll be careful.”

Mark wants to make a joke about how the word “careful” doesn’t exist in his vocabulary, but the imploring look on Joan’s face makes him reconsider. “Yeah, I promise,” he says instead. “Anyway, I think I’ll be all set from here. Love you, Joanie.”

“I love you too,” she replies. “See you soon.”

He lifts a hand in farewell to her, and she returns the gesture before walking away from him to disappear from his sight. An uncertain future awaits him beyond this bus station, but even as he stares down his new reality of being atypical, he knows that as long as he has Joan’s support, he has nothing to fear.


	5. Chapter 5

One month after Mark’s visit to Joan, the return to normalcy that he has found at home shatters abruptly when he gets a phone call during a late-night homework session.

It’s one of those nights that makes him suspect that his teachers must have purposefully teamed up to dump a heavy workload on him all at once, and he didn’t even get home until almost five o’clock thanks to a group project that he’d had to work on after school. He is therefore still toiling away at his assignments as the clock passes midnight, even though he finds it increasingly difficult to focus on the calculus homework that he has left for last. As dangerous as it is at this late hour to put his head down on his desk and rest his eyes for what he promises himself will only be a couple of minutes, he does so anyway, hoping that he will be refreshed and ready to finish the assignment after giving his brain a break.

It is at that moment, while he lingers in the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, that his phone rings.

Mark whips his head up at the sound of the ringtone, a tinny cell phone speaker version of the Beach Boys’ “Wouldn’t It Be Nice” that he has assigned to Joan’s number in a nostalgic reminder of their childhood. He scrambles to find his phone among the books strewn across his desk and answers the call, still groggy and disoriented.

“Good, your cell phone is still on,” says Joan on the other end of the phone. “I didn’t know how else I was going to reach you if you had it off.”

Mark rubs his eyes and squints at the clock on his nightstand across the room, having taken out his contacts a couple of hours ago. “Ugh, Joanie, do you have any idea what time it is? I have this thing called school in the morning—”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t wait until tomorrow. I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Figured _what_ out?” Mark says, not bothering to stifle his yawn.

“Your ability. How it works.”

He sits up straighter in his desk chair, every trace of his exhaustion having vanished. “Wait, really?”

“Yes,” says Joan. “I’m not entirely sure whether something like this is possible, but it’s the only explanation I can think of that makes sense. Anyway, hear me out: We were definitely onto something when we realized that your ability is proximity-based. But I don’t think it’s limited to telekinetics. I think your ability is affected by _any_ atypical in your immediate vicinity.”

“What do you mean, ‘ _any_ atypical’?” he asks. “Like I draw my telekinetic energy or whatever you want to call it from anyone with a superpower, even if they don’t have telekinesis?”

“Not exactly. What I’m saying is that you might not actually be telekinetic at all. I think instead you’re able to use the ability of any atypical within a certain radius of you. Like some kind of mimic.”

Mark opens his mouth to respond but then closes it again, trying and failing to wrap his mind around what she is suggesting. “Jesus fucking Christ,” is all he manages to get out when he finally finds his voice.

“Is that a skeptical reaction, a surprised reaction, or a ‘what the hell is happening’ reaction?” Joan asks.

“Can it be all three?” Mark stands up from his desk chair and paces a few restless steps around the room. “Is that even a thing, being able to use other people’s abilities? How did you even get there from me only being able to use my ability around Vanessa? It feels like there’s a big logical leap that I’m missing here.”

“Like I said, I’m not one hundred percent sure. But before you left, I took a look through our notebook again. There was one incident that we wrote about that I don’t think can be explained away by your imagination or even telekinesis. Do you remember that time the summer before I left for college, when we were walking home from getting ice cream and you somehow knew that our neighbor Mr. Carson was having a heart attack when we went by his house?”

“Oh, right. That was totally weird,” says Mark. He’d mostly forgotten about that incident until now, as much as one can forget about the out-of-body experience of walking into your neighbor’s house and finding him on the ground clutching his chest, only to come back into yourself and discover that you haven’t gone anywhere at all. “So are you saying that happened because there was another atypical in the area, and I was able to use their power?” he asks. “What kind of superpower would that even be?”

“Some kind of astral projection, maybe? I don’t know the limits of what’s possible with atypical abilities. And if your powers work the way I think they do, those possibilities are probably endless.”

Mark sits down on his bed, still trying to make sense of everything that Joan has told him. In many ways it seems impossible for his atypical capabilities to be blown so wide open, but the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Too many strange things have happened around him for him to be “just” telekinetic, and Joan’s hypothesis effectively explains every unusual occurrence that has happened around him even if he has trouble wrapping his mind around the amount of other atypicals he has unknowingly encountered in his lifetime.

“So there’s telekinesis, obviously,” he says, listing off the abilities that he has used to the best of his recollection. “And then the astral projection thing. What about the time in middle school when I pushed a kid so hard that he went flying backwards? That could have been super strength or something, right?”

“That’s what I was thinking. And the time in elementary school when you walked through the bathroom door without opening it… Well, that one pretty much explains itself. Being able to phase through solid objects would be the more technical term, I suppose. And that’s not even counting all of the undocumented times that you might have used an ability without realizing it.”

“And you really think there were other atypicals around every single one of those times?” Mark asks. “I can’t believe that there would be a ‘phase through solid objects’-er just hanging out in a school bathroom, for example.”

“I don’t think you necessarily have to be in the same room as someone to use their ability.” As always, Joan is multiple steps ahead of him when it comes to figuring everything out. “You were still able to weakly use telekinesis even when Vanessa was in the hallway of my building. Being in the same room obviously makes it stronger, but I don’t think it’s completely necessary as long as the other atypical is within a certain distance of you.”

“Have you talked to Vanessa about any of this?” says Mark. “You know, to get a second opinion so that you know you haven’t _entirely_ pulled all of this out of your ass?”

“No, not yet. I only had the lightbulb moment of figuring all of this out a few hours ago, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable calling her so late at night. She’s never mentioned anything about atypicals who can mimic other people’s abilities, but I still think it’s the only possible explanation for why you’ve been able to do so many impossible things without any regularity or consistency.”

Mark can easily imagine Joan poring over her notes from her work with Vanessa and pacing around her apartment as she puzzles out the conclusions that have led her to making this phone call. At least he has not been the only person who has been hard at work tonight, which brings him comfort as he remembers how late it is.

A knock on his bedroom door startles him, since he has not expected his parents to be awake at this hour. He inhales a breath, bracing himself to hear either of their voices. Maybe if he remains quiet enough they will think that he is asleep, even though the light that comes from under his closed door betrays him.

“Mark, it’s past midnight. You should go to bed,” his dad says, opening the door to peer into the room.

“Chill out, I’m just on the phone with Joanie,” he replies.

“Why are you talking to her so late? Is everything okay?” His dad sounds far more suspicious than he needs to be, as if the only reason why this phone call would be happening is because something is wrong or his children are up to something. He then wonders how long his dad has been standing outside his door and whether he has overheard anything potentially incriminating from his conversation with Joan.

“Yeah, everything’s cool,” Mark assures him.

“Good. Tell Joan that it’s late and you both should be asleep.”

Mark bites back his retort that if it’s so late then his dad should be asleep as well. He knows the response to that statement will be something like “Because I’m an adult,” even though Joan is now a fully-fledged and independent adult in every way and Mark is only six months away from turning eighteen. He is relieved that from his position in the doorway his dad cannot see his opened textbook and unfinished homework on his desk, because otherwise he’d inevitably be scolded not only for being up so late on a school night but also for letting Joan distract him when he has work to do.

“Yeah, whatever,” he says instead, because he doesn’t see himself going to bed anytime soon after everything that Joan has told him. “Good night, Dad.”

“Good night,” his dad replies.

He closes the door with his departure. Mark waits for his footsteps to fade away in the direction of his parents’ bedroom before returning to his phone call.

“Sorry, Dad was being annoying,” he says to Joan. “I think he thinks we’re plotting something.”

“Yes, because why else would I be calling you late at night other than to hatch some kind of diabolical scheme?” He can hear the smile in her response. “Did he tell you to go to bed?”

“Got it in one,” Mark replies. “It’s not like I’m specifically staying up late to talk to you, either. Technically, I was still doing my homework when you called.”

“Mark!” she exclaims. “You haven’t finished your homework yet?”

“Relax, I just have like half of a calc assignment left,” he says, even though his use of the word “half” is extremely generous. “I’ll just finish it tomorrow morning. It’s no big deal.”

Joan sighs in exasperation. “Well, I should let you go anyway. I’ll call again if I figure anything else out, but in the meantime, just keep your eyes open. You never know when you might encounter another atypical, and I don’t want you revealing yourself or causing any trouble.”

“Right. Constant vigilance,” Mark says, although he’s not sure whether she will appreciate the Harry Potter reference when she is not as into the series as he is. “I’ll be fine, Joanie. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Okay,” she replies, not sounding completely convinced. “Finish your homework, go to bed, and we’ll talk later.”

“Sure thing. Love you.”

“Love you too,” she echoes him. “Good night.”

After the call has ended, Mark shifts position to lie down on his bed, mindlessly flipping his phone open and closed while he continues to process what Joan has told him. When he first learned that he has superpowers a month ago, he never expected to face the additional revelation that he has the _superest_ of superpowers, something that holds unlimited potential. Figuring out who he is throughout his teenage years has already been difficult even before the word “atypical” came into the picture, and now he must reassess his identity again after barely becoming used to defining himself as a bizarrely limited telekinetic. He has no guidebook or road map to tell him how to explore this unknown part of him, which leaves him unsure of where he currently stands on the “excited vs. terrified” scale of having an atypical ability. For the sake of his sanity, he decides that he will have to follow the same suggestion he gave to Joan and not worry about it more than he has to.

The rest of his homework sits forgotten on his desk as he settles into bed, but even as he lies awake he does not fully realize what struggles await him in his atypical future.

* * *

Photography II is Mark’s favorite class this term, not only because he has a natural aptitude for it based on his grades when he’d taken the introductory course last year, but also because it is taught by his favorite teacher in the art department. Mr. Frederickson is young-ish and passionate about art of every kind, and so even when Mark is listening to a theory-filled lecture rather than taking photos or working in the darkroom, he is rarely bored in his class.

A few days after Joan’s late-night call, he finds his attention wandering less than ten minutes into the class period, not due to boredom but because he has begun to feel unnaturally hot. He unzips his hoodie and shrugs it over his shoulders, but the uncomfortable heat continues to spread through his body. It feels different enough from a fever for him to know that he hasn’t been struck by sudden illness, although he cannot shake the suspicion that something else is wrong with him. He then remembers the brain tingles he got around Vanessa that preceded the use of his telekinesis. If Joan is right about the open-ended nature of his ability, then he could be picking up something from a nearby person that is affecting him in a much more full-body way. Despite her warning that there could be other atypicals anywhere and that he needs to be wary, until now the thought has never crossed his mind that he could be in danger of exposing what he can do in the middle of a classroom.

He wipes away the beads of sweat that form on his forehead and pushes down his discomfort so that he can focus on Mr. Frederickson’s lecture. The class has been meeting in the computer lab this week as part of their digital photography unit, and for the past few days Mark has enjoyed adding a new dimension of photography knowledge to his repertoire. Today, no matter how hard he tries to pay attention to what Mr. Frederickson is saying about contrast and saturation, he cannot ignore the energy welling up inside him that feels like it is about to burst at any moment. Like a volcano, he realizes, and an image enters his mind of hot flames shooting out of him in a much more destructive version of the telekinetic storm that he caused when he first met Vanessa.

He looks around at his fellow students who are seated at the desks that comprise half of the classroom space that is not taken up by tables with computers. Does anyone else in this class have superpowers, he wonders? Is one of them also sitting here sweating, trying not to accidentally use their ability and expose themselves to a classroom of students? The odds are unlikely with only eight other people in the class, since it is an elective only open to juniors and seniors who have taken the prerequisite introductory photography course, but that does not stop him from being suspicious of everyone in this classroom and beyond.

He squirms in his chair, hating how even when he has an answer for how his ability works, he still does not know how to control the heat rising inside him. All of the confidence that he’d felt using telekinesis a month ago has vanished with the fear that he will reveal what he is if he is not careful. If the other atypical in the vicinity is presumably keeping everything under control, however, then surely he can do the same for the next forty or so minutes until the class period ends.

He takes a few deep, calming breaths, and on the third exhale some of the pressure that has built up inside him releases. When he moves his hand from where it has been resting on his open notebook, he sees the edges of the page burning away with the heat of a small flame. He quickly smothers the fire with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, his heart leaping into his throat with the kind of panic that makes his mind go blank and his limbs seize up. No one else in the room seems to have noticed anything amiss, but he knows that it will only be a matter of time before his control slips again and he is unable to keep the heat fully inside of him. Or maybe everyone will realize something is off about him before that happens, when they look over at him and see him tensed, sweating, and breathing unsteadily, and then they’ll _know_ that he’s not normal and that there is something inside him that might not always obey him.

 _You need to get the fuck out of here_ , his brain tells him, taking command over his terrified body.

His hand shoots into the air. It’s ridiculous that he even has to ask permission to leave when he might burst into flames at any second, but running out of the classroom without any explanation will only lead to questions from his teachers and classmates that he does not want to answer.

“Yes, Mark?” Mr. Frederickson says, calling on him as if he expects him to have an answer to a question he has posed.

“Can I go use the bathroom?” Mark asks, not having processed anything that has been said during the past few minutes.

“Oh—go ahead,” Mr. Frederickson replies, sounding vaguely disappointed that Mark has not raised his hand to contribute to the class.

Mark hurries out of the classroom, and as he passes the library next to the computer lab the heat inside him rises to dangerous levels. It is all he can do to not break into a run, fleeing the scene before the entire hallway goes up in flames. He cannot risk drawing more attention to himself, especially if he encounters a teacher or faculty member and is forced to make the excuse that he just _really_ has to pee and that he’s definitely not taking preventative measures to avoid exposing his weird superpowers.

The nearest bathroom is only halfway down the hall, but he detours across the school building until he is confident that he is entirely himself again. It is only then that he ducks into the mercifully empty men’s room in that wing of the school, his heart still pounding even after his body has cooled to a more normal temperature. His chest aches with a tightness that makes it difficult for him to breathe, and the thought that there might be something wrong with him beyond his ability only makes him panic more as his legs turn to jelly beneath him.

He stands in front of one of the sinks and grips its edges with shaking hands to keep himself upright. _You’re okay_ , he tells himself firmly. _You’re okay, and you know what’s happening. It was just another atypical whose ability you latched onto, and you haven’t burned down the school so that’s good, right? You’re good._

“Good” is the least applicable word to describe his state of mind right now, however. He cannot quite catch his breath as he holds onto the sink so tightly that his knuckles turn white from the strain. Whatever has overcome him is as physical as it is mental, and even though he no longer feels the effects of his ability, his body continues to shake outside of his control. His sense of time melds into an anxious blur, and seconds might as well be hours as he stands there feeling like his chest is about to collapse on itself. He wonders what the odds are of him dying here in this bathroom, sprawled out across the gross tile floor because his heart and lungs have forgotten how to work. Talk about embarrassing ways to die, he thinks, and if he had to choose one way to die on school property, having a weird heart attack in the bathroom because of his even weirder superpower would not be at the top of his list.

An indeterminate amount of time later, the door opens with the arrival of another person. Mark’s head jerks up at the sound, and in the mirror’s reflection he sees a guy walking past the sinks. Like most strangers in the men’s bathroom, they quietly ignore each other while the other guy takes care of his business and Mark tries to remember how to breathe like a normal person. It’s not until the other guy is washing his hands at the sink next to Mark that he notices him giving a sideways glance. Mark looks away from him, staring at the sink’s drain like it is the most interesting thing he has ever seen.

“Hey, dude, you okay?” the guy asks.

“Yep.” Mark’s reply sounds too loud and falsely cheery in his ears as he speaks.

“Okay, cool.”

The sink next to him turns off, and with the opening and closing of the bathroom door Mark is alone again. He lets out a trembling breath of relief and studies his reflection in the mirror for the first time since entering the bathroom. Externally, he does not look like he has been having any kind of freakout, apart from his stiff posture and occasionally unsteady breathing. He turns on the faucet and splashes some cold water onto his face, which feels good after the heat that consumed his body in the computer lab. He inhales another breath, exhales it slowly, and then lightly slaps his cheeks a few times with both hands as if he is waking himself up.

Now that his head feels less stuffed with sawdust, he lays out his options in front of him for what he should do next. As much as he does not want to miss any more of the one class that he actually enjoys, a quick look at his watch tells him that most of the class period has already passed by this point. Although part of him wants to go to the nurse’s office and lie down for a little while, he knows it is much safer for him to stay here and finish having his meltdown in relative peace. He is not yet ready to face whatever lies beyond the safe haven that he has found in this bathroom, and the only thing that prevents him from resigning himself to his fate of staying here forever is the hope that if he has survived anywhere from months to years sharing a school with at least one other atypical, then he has a fairly good chance of not encountering them again as they both continue with their usual schedule.

Mark stands there at the bathroom sink and breathes through the rest of his fear and anxiety, employing the tactics that Joan would tell him to use if she was here with him. When the bell rings, he mentally pulls himself together and exits the bathroom into the hallway that is now swarmed with students. He jostles his way through them in his rush to retrieve his belongings from the computer lab, and to his relief the hot-coals-under-his-skin sensation does not resurface when he approaches the part of the building that he’d fled from.

He peers inside the computer lab and sees his sweatshirt, backpack, and open notebook exactly where he left them, while Mr. Frederickson lingers in anticipation of his return. There doesn’t seem to be a class using the space next period, and so Mark is able to slip into the room and pack up his belongings without disturbing any students settling in for a class.

“Oh, Mark, I was just about to page for you,” Mr. Frederickson says when he notices Mark’s presence. “I wanted to make sure you got your things.”

Mark shoves his notebook into his backpack, determinedly avoiding the sight of the flame-blackened edges of the page where he’d been taking notes. “Sorry for missing so much of class,” he says. “Is there anything I need to make up?”

“Your homework assignment is on the board, and make sure you get the notes that you missed from someone. And remember to bring your camera to class tomorrow. We’ll be doing some hands-on editing work with the computers.”

Mark grabs a pen and scribbles the details of the homework onto his hand. “Okay, got it. See you tomorrow, Mr. Frederickson.”

He zips up his sweatshirt and swings his backpack over his shoulders. Just when he thinks that he can make it out of the classroom without any further questioning, Mr. Frederickson’s call of “Mark?” stops him in his tracks.

He turns around to see Mr. Frederickson beckoning to him where he has been erasing the whiteboard at the front of the classroom. Mark walks toward him, watching as he puts down the eraser and fixes him with a look that says “I’m concerned about you, but I’m also a Cool Adult and you can always come to me about anything.”

“Is everything all right?” Mr. Frederickson asks him. “It’s not like you to miss this class.”

The way that he says “this class” makes Mark suspect that word has spread among the teachers that he has a history of occasionally cutting classes throughout his high school career. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he replies. Then, knowing that he has to explain himself somehow, he makes a quick excuse. “I guess I’m just a little stressed out. You know, with schoolwork and college application stuff.”

Mr. Frederickson gives an understanding nod. “Senior year can be tough,” he says. “But you’re a smart kid and a talented artist. Any art school will be very lucky to have you. And I’m not just saying that because you asked me to write a letter of recommendation for you,” he adds with a chuckle.

“Thanks.” Mark offers one of his usual charming smiles, but the gesture feels forced. “And I’ll try to time my next nervous breakdown so that it doesn’t happen in the middle of your class,” he says, falling back into his usual habit of trying to bring humor into every situation.

“I think it would be a better idea to see your guidance counselor if you’re ever feeling overwhelmed again,” Mr. Frederickson suggests with a sense of gentle seriousness that indicates that Mark’s attempt at lightheartedness has not landed as intended.

He nods, even though he knows that the school counseling office will have no idea what to do with what is _actually_ troubling him. “Right. I’ll make sure to do that.”

The bell rings to signify the start of the next class period. “Do you need me to write you a pass for your next class?” asks Mr. Frederickson.

“No, I have lunch now. It’s fine.” This time, Mark’s smile feels more natural on his lips as he prepares to face his friends like nothing has happened. “I should get going, though. Have a good day, Mr. Frederickson.”

“You too, Mark.”

Mark exits the classroom and heads for his locker to put away some of his books from his morning classes. “Shit,” he mutters when he realizes that he has missed what has become his pre-lunch routine over the past few weeks: spending a couple of stolen minutes with Tori at his locker before her next class, since they don’t have the same lunch period. He hopes that she will not be too upset with him for not showing up for their usual rendezvous, especially when he can’t give her the full explanation of how the past hour has gone for him.

He finishes switching out his books and hurries to the cafeteria, where he buys his lunch with a few crumpled dollar bills from his backpack before going outside to the picnic tables where he and his friends always eat when the weather is nice. Today there is a chilly November breeze in the air, but the bright sunshine lifts his spirits as he sits down at the end of the bench.

“Hey, look who finally decided to show up,” Josh says at his approach.

“Sorry, I had to talk to Mr. Frederickson after photography,” Mark replies. “Did I miss anything?”

“We need you to break the tie vote for what to listen to,” says another one of his friends, Sasha, who has a CD player that is small enough to squeeze into her backpack but has good enough speakers to blast music across the lunch table. “Josh wants to listen to those Panic! at the Disco guys _again_ even though we just did that album on Monday—”

“Oh, dude, we’re totally listening to them,” Mark interrupts her. Even though they are a brand-new band whose first album came out earlier this fall, he already has them on heavy rotation. “As the deciding vote, I hereby declare it.”

“You don’t even want to know what the other option is?” asks Nick, who has been dating Sasha since sophomore year and usually matches her opinion on all music-related matters.

“Doesn’t matter. I’ve made my choice,” says Mark. He takes a bite of the slice of pizza that he has bought for lunch, which is usually the safest option among the selections of terrible cafeteria food.

“But it’s Rilo Kiley, Mark!” Sasha pleads. “You _love_ Rilo Kiley!”

“Shut up, Sasha, you were totally jamming out to ‘I Write Sins Not Tragedies’ last weekend,” says Trevor, the fifth member of their lunch crew. “Just accept defeat gracefully.”

Josh opens the lid of the CD player and slides in the disc. As much as Mark wants to take comfort in the songs that have become increasingly familiar to him the more times that he has listened to the album, his thoughts remain on edge as he eats his lunch. He casts nervous glances around the courtyard where the picnic tables are located, still afraid that he will feel the uncontrollable heat rising inside him at any moment. His friends’ conversations go in one ear and out the other as he focuses on acting as normally as possible, like today is just another day that hasn’t involved a near-catastrophe. He knows when to laugh at the correct times and when to insert a comment or joke of his own, but everything feels so empty and unnatural like he is reading from a script. On today’s episode of Mark Bryant’s Totally Normal Life: “Having Superpowers Actually Really Sucks, Especially When You Can’t Tell Your Friends About It.”

When the bell rings at the end of the lunch period, Mark takes his time leaving the table, saying goodbye to his friends and letting them depart ahead of him while pretending to pack up his backpack despite having not taken much out of it. When he finally stands up with his bag slung across his shoulders, he sees Josh waiting for him so that they can walk to their next class together.

“Go on ahead,” Mark says to him. Then, quickly devising an excuse, he adds, “I should go find Tori since I missed her before lunch.”

Josh frowns at his dismissal of their usual routine. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“With Tori? Yeah, it was just because I had to talk with Mr. Frederickson after—”

“No, with _you_ ,” Josh says. “You were totally out of it all through lunch, and not in a good way, either. What’s up?”

Mark is tired of that question by now, and he is even more tired of having to fake a smile and wave off everyone’s concerns when it is becoming increasingly obvious that he is terrible at hiding his emotions. Lying to Josh is also harder than lying to the random onlooker in the bathroom or even to Mr. Frederickson, because although Mark prides himself in having a lot of friends, Josh is the closest thing he has to a single best friend. The truth lingers upon his lips waiting to be confessed, but with Joan’s warning fresh in his mind about how nobody can know about his ability, he retreats into full secrecy mode despite how difficult it is to keep his squirming anxiety inside of him.

“Oh, you know,” he replies as casually as possible. “Just having the stress-related breakdown that every senior’s allowed to have at least once during the year. I ended up spending most of photography quietly freaking out in the bathroom, so I guess I’m still kind of on edge because of that.”

He watches Josh’s face closely to determine whether he has bought his half-lie. To his relief, Josh seems sympathetic to the words “stress-related breakdown,” especially after one day a couple of weeks ago when he had moped at length about how he isn’t smart or interesting enough to get into his dream school while giving Mark a ride home.

“Not to get all ‘let’s talk about our feelings’ and shit,” says Josh. “But if you ever want someone to rant to, I’m here if you need me.”

“I’ll be fine,” Mark assures him. He mentally checks his body as an extra precaution. Everything feels normal: no unnatural warmth, no heat in his veins. “Come on, we should get to class. Ms. Choi’s gonna be out for blood if we’re late again.”

“If _you’re_ late, you mean,” Josh says. “ _I’m_ not the one who needs to take an extra two minutes to make out with a girl.” He punches Mark teasingly on the shoulder.

“Shut up, dude.” Mark punches him back with equal lightheartedness.

Somehow, he manages to make it through the rest of the school day without any further incidents, although he remains alert for any unusual sensations in his mind and body so that he can make a quick exit if necessary. By the time the final bell rings, he is more than ready to go home, and so he heads straight out of the school building while making hurried excuses to any friends that he passes on the way. It feels good to transfer all of his emotions into the forward momentum of his bike as he pedals as fast as his legs can carry him, with the wind resistance whipping against the sleeves of his sweatshirt to spread a bracing chill throughout his body.

When he gets home, he dumps his backpack at the bottom of the stairs to take up to his room later and goes into the kitchen. One of the best things about the weather getting colder is that he can now drink hot chocolate without any judgment of it being out of season, although as far as Mark is concerned hot chocolate is _always_ acceptable no matter what the weather. The cupboards contain a few packets of instant mix left over from last winter, but he takes more comfort in making it from scratch, heating the milk and melting the chocolate the way that his parents taught him when he was younger. He’d been banned from using the stove unsupervised for the majority of his childhood after a few near-disastrous “experiments” in the kitchen, but now he knows better than to let his attention wander when a burner is on.

Once he has a full mug of hot chocolate in his hands, he goes upstairs with his backpack and plops himself down in his desk chair. He takes a cautious sip of his drink, letting the warm chocolatey goodness slide down his throat as he decides what to do next. His initial instinct is that he should call Joan, but despite how easy it usually is for him to talk to her about his problems, everything that happened today feels too big for him to vocalize right now. Instead, he retrieves their shared notebook from where he keeps it safely stored in one of his desk drawers, untouched since reading the last note she had written to him when he’d visited her. Even though she will not see his letter until she comes home for Thanksgiving in a couple of weeks, at least writing to her will allow him to share those feelings at his own pace without any awkward phone pauses or frantically expressed words. 

He finds a pen and opens the notebook to where they have left off in their correspondence. _Dear Joanie,_ he writes. _I can’t stop thinking about what happened when I visited you at school. I think I’m getting anxiety or panic attacks or something. Every time I notice or feel something weird or unnatural about me—my body, my thoughts, even my feelings—I assume it’s happening again and then I’m very suspicious of all the people even remotely near me. Do you think I should see someone? Can you help me? Love, Mark._

He feels better as soon as he has gotten all the words out, as if he has released all of the pressure that has built up inside him over the course of the day. Upon re-reading what he has written, he wonders if he is being overdramatic. There’s no such thing as being too dramatic about having a breakdown in a school bathroom, however, and if anything he should have been _more_ specific about how the heat of flames overtook him and then leaked out just enough to throw him into a state of panic.

He ultimately leaves the words as they are and closes the notebook. As he leans back in his desk chair and continues to sip his hot chocolate, his hands itch with the desire to turn the emotions inside him into art. Even before he took his first photography class and realized that he’d found his calling, he has always felt at home while creating art, from the doodles that he does in the margins of his notebooks to the more complex pieces that he has made for his various art classes over the years. The world feels far less complicated when he can break it down into angles and lines, and so he retrieves his most recent sketchbook and his good drawing pencils, turns on some music, and gets to work.

It doesn’t take him long to enter the creative zone, his pencil moving decisively across the page to capture the image that he has in his mind: a human figure with flames shooting from their outstretched hands to curl around their body and toward their head. He does not initially intend for the sketch to be a self-portrait, but it is not mere coincidence that the figure ends up having the same features as him when he adds the facial details. The lines and curves that comprise his eyes and mouth create a clear picture of fear, depicting not wonder and pride at the flames that wrap around his body, but rather terror at what has burst out of him. “What does the fire symbolize?” he’d probably be asked if he were submitting this sketch for critique in an art class, as if the flames are a metaphorical representation rather than a very real manifestation that could have consumed him. Only he and Joan know the truth behind what he has drawn, and maybe he should tuck the drawing inside their notebook as a more concrete expression of his fears.

He lays down his pencil and inspects his work, mostly pleased with the results except for how the angle one of the arms looks increasingly weirder the longer he looks at it. His hand hovers at the binding of the sketchbook, ready to tear out the drawing along the perforated line and leave it for Joan to see, but instead he closes the sketchbook and puts it away, hiding away his fears so he can believe that everything is fine.


	6. Chapter 6

Joan comes home the day before Thanksgiving, and Mark is pleasantly surprised to see her car already parked in the driveway when he returns from hanging out with his friends after the half-day of school that precedes the holiday weekend. He’s pretty sure their parents weren’t expecting her until the evening, but he is definitely not complaining about her early return. At least now he can get a few hours of quality time with her before their parents come home from work and start interrogating her about her grad school life.

“Joanie?” he calls out when he enters the house.

“In here,” she replies.

He follows her voice into the living room and finds her on the couch with a laptop in her lap and various books and papers spread around her. “Oh my God, are you working?” he asks. “It’s the first day of your break! You should be enjoying yourself!”

“The end of the semester is in a few weeks, and I have a lot of deadlines that I need to stay on top of,” Joan replies. “I thought I’d take advantage of an empty house.”

“Yeah, but now I’m here so you’re going to put your work away,” Mark declares. “Also, hi.”

“Hi.” Joan rises from the couch to hug him. “What have you been up to this afternoon?” she then asks. “Didn’t you get out of school at noon?”

Mark shifts some of her books aside so that he can sit next to her. She sets her laptop on the coffee table, and before she closes the lid to give him her full attention he catches a glimpse of what looks like a research paper in progress.

“Nothing much.” he replies. “Just grabbing lunch and hanging out with some friends.”

Joan makes a quiet hum of acknowledgment. “How are your friends doing?”

Mark wonders if these inquiries are a trap to lure him into accidentally disclosing any questionable activities that he has participated in after school—which he _hasn’t_ done, at least not today. “They’re good,” he replies. “Nick’s grounded for getting caught sneaking in after curfew last weekend, so that blows, but other than that everything’s cool.”

“What about that girl you were kind-of dating last month?” Joan asks. “Are you still seeing her?”

“Jeez, lighten up on the inquisition, or else I’m gonna have to turn the tables on you.” Mark elbows her gently. “But no. We’re, uh… We’re not really a thing anymore. The weekend before last, we were at a party and I saw her kissing another guy. Which, I mean, it’s not like we were official or exclusive or anything like that, so it’s not technically cheating, but still.”

“Did you talk to her about it?” says Joan with a pointedness that makes him think that “Proper Communication” might as well be her middle name.

He rolls his eyes. “ _Yes_ , we talked. I told her that if she wants to make out with Tall, Blond, and Lanky, she can go right ahead, because there are plenty of other people that I could be making out with too. And that pissed her off for some reason, like _she’s_ allowed to kiss other people but I’m not. Girls are _seriously_ confusing sometimes. No offense, of course,” he adds in a mirror of what she’d always say to him as a preteen and teenager whenever she complained about how stupid boys are. “Anyway, that was pretty much the end of things for us. We haven’t talked in over a week now.”

“It sounds like the two of you had different expectations about what a casual relationship should look like,” says Joan. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, well.” Mark shrugs indifferently. “I’m over it.”

A couple of months ago, he might have been more upset about the situation, but with all of the atypical stuff going on in his life lately, most of his other concerns have taken a back seat. Even in the moment he’d felt mostly okay after his initial sting of anger had faded, although it certainly helped that he’d immediately found Nick and Sasha and taken a couple of hits from the joint they offered him.

Joan looks as if she is about to say something else to him, but whatever additional thoughts she has go unsaid for now. He then wonders if she has already read his latest entry in their notebook, which he has left on her bed for her to read like he has done every other time that she has come home during a school break. Maybe she is figuring out how to best broach the topic of how the uncertain and amorphous nature of his ability has had a clear emotional effect on him, and her friendly inquiries have been her way of easing him into sharing something bigger about his feelings.

“Well, if I know you, I’m sure there are plenty of other girls at school lining up to have a chance with you,” Joan says.

It takes Mark a moment to remember that they’d been talking about his love life before he began spinning hypothetical scenarios. She speaks with her usual trace of jealousy about how he has effortlessly achieved the popularity that comes with the idealized high school experience, which is a sharp contrast to how she’d been strictly academic-minded during her own high school years.

“And there are probably dozens of completely-inoffensive-to-the-point-of-boring guys out there who’d love to date you,” he replies, unable to resist making a jab at her taste in men even when offering her a piece of encouragement in return.

“Oh, shut up,” she says, although she still smiles fondly at him as if she has missed his teasing during their time apart.

As the afternoon gives way to evening, Mark’s thoughts wander away from the question of how Joan will react when she finds out that everything with his ability has not been business as usual since she pinpointed his capabilities. By that time he has retreated to his bedroom after dinner, he is much more focused on his computer screen as he chats with Josh on AIM and makes a new playlist in iTunes of some of his recent favorite songs—until a knock on the door interrupts the chilled-out evening that he has settled into.

“Mark, can I come in?” comes the muffled sound of Joan’s voice.

“Just a sec,” he calls to her.

He types a quick _brb_ to Josh and turns down the music that he is listening to. When he opens the door, she immediately walks past him and shuts the door behind her in an all-business manner that catches him off guard.

“Whoa, what’s up?” he says.

“Have you looked at the notebook yet?” she asks.

“No. Have _you_ looked at it?”

He double-checks to make sure that she is not carrying it with her so that she can return it to him after reading it, but her hands are empty. His stomach sinks to somewhere near his knees when he realizes that he has not adequately prepared for the conversation with her in which he explains that although he _was_ freaking out when he wrote his last letter to her, he is now totally fine and doesn’t need her to fuss over him.

“I read it after unpacking my things for the weekend,” Joan replies. “I put it back in your desk drawer so you could read it when you got home. You _really_ shouldn’t be leaving it out where other people can see it, considering some of the stuff that we’ve written about in there.”

“What, you think that the big ‘TOP SECRET’ written on the cover isn’t enough to keep Mom and Dad from snooping around in it?” Mark jokes. “Besides, you should have told me earlier that you’d already seen it and put it back. I’m not a mind reader, you know. Or at least I’m not one right at this moment,” he corrects himself, realizing that mind reading could easily be an atypical ability that exists.

He retrieves the notebook from its drawer and puts up an away message on AIM now that he knows that he won’t be immediately returning to his computer. He then sits down on his bed and flips through the pages of the notebook to see what Joan is so eager for him to read.

 _Dear Mark_ , her most recent note says. _From now on let’s not write about this kind of stuff here. Just to be safe. I know I sound paranoid, but I think it would be better if we only spoke in person. Especially since we used to just leave this notebook wherever. When I go back to school, you can call me_ _anytime_ _. I mean it. Call my cellphone. I got a new plan where I don’t have to buy minutes anymore. I am hesitant to suggest you see someone. I am a huge advocate for therapy, but I think your situation is extremely unique and I worry the average therapist or psychiatrist will drug you up or send you to in-patient. Don’t do anything dumb. See you soon. Love, Joanie. _

Mark looks up from the page to see her regarding him with an expression of gentle concern. He can easily imagine the words of “Why didn’t you say anything to me earlier?” poised upon her lips, and he suddenly feels like he has been caught keeping a huge secret from her. 

“I didn’t know you were having such a hard time,” she says. “You should have called me.”

“I didn’t want you to worry.” He closes the notebook and sets it aside. “It was just one time that things got really bad, anyway. Most of the time I have everything under control.”

Joan sits down next to him. “Are you really having panic attacks?” she asks.

“I mean, I guess that’s what I’d call it,” he replies. “It was definitely one of those full-body, hyperventilating freakouts. You know, when your heart feels like it’s going to explode and you don’t know whether you want to scream or curl up in a corner and cry. Or do both.”

Her frown deepens. “Tell me about what led to those feelings.”

Mark has never been to a therapist beyond his guidance counselor at school when he is required to talk to him about his course schedule and plans for the future, but he recognizes shrink-speak when he hears it. “Yeah, okay, Dr. Bryant,” he says, because it’s easier for him to tease her than to confront his emotions.

“Hey, you don’t get to call me that until I have my PhD, and that’s still years away.” She nudges his foot with her own. “And I may not be able to give you therapy, since I’m not qualified yet _and_ because you’re my brother, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help you.”

“Well, there’s definitely at least one other atypical at my school, first of all,” he begins, steeling himself to recount the incident. “They can create fire or something like that. Or at least that’s what I was able to do. Not anything serious,” he adds quickly at Joan’s look of alarm. “I was in photography class in the computer lab when it happened, because we’re doing digital photography right now and—well, that part isn't important. Anyway, I was in class and I started to feel really warm. It was kind of like that tingling feeling that I got around Vanessa, except instead of inside my head it was like hot coals burning under my skin. And so I was sitting there trying not to panic, but obviously I wasn’t doing a great job at keeping everything under control because I ended up burning the edges of my notebook. And of course that really freaked me out, so I asked to go to the bathroom so that no one else had to see me having a breakdown. Because that would have just been embarrassing for everyone involved.”

Joan moves closer to him to put an arm around his shoulders in support. “You don’t ever have to be embarrassed by the way you feel,” she reminds him.

He gives a skeptical scoff. “Yeah, easy for you to say. You’re not in high school anymore.”

“Still,” she insists. “Things are going to be different for you now that you know about your ability, and it’s okay to have new and scary emotions because of that. There’s no shame in it.”

The gentle encouragement in her voice brings a lump of emotions to his throat that he does not know what to do with. He takes a deep breath, and he hates how it trembles on the way out, betraying the fears that he has been pushing down for the past couple of weeks.

“I was really fucking scared, Joanie,” he admits, the words spilling out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

There’s something almost parental about the way that Joan hugs him, gathering him into her arms and holding him close. The protective warmth of her embrace makes him feel smaller, like he has reverted into his younger self who always sought her comfort whenever their parents weren’t around to give it to him. He sniffles against the sleeve of her sweater, determined not to let himself cry. The sound prompts her to kiss the top of his head in a tender gesture.

“It’ll be okay,” she soothes him. “ _You’ll_ be okay.”

He shakes his head. “But this will just be my life now, won’t it?” he says, his worries flowing out of him now that the floodgates have been opened. “I’ll always have to be on guard in case there are other atypicals around me. And I guess I never thought about how dangerous some abilities could be until I was trying not to set the computer lab on fire. Like, it wasn’t just about destroying the classroom. I could have seriously hurt someone. And I don’t want to be the freak with a weird superpower who gets people hurt.”

Joan withdraws from their embrace, although she maintains a firm grip on his shoulders. “You’re not a freak, Mark,” she says.

“I kind of am, though,” he replies. “Going by what you’ve said, most atypicals just have the one thing they can do, and that’s it. But I don’t work like that. I can do pretty much _anything_ in the right circumstances, and most of the time I’m never going to know if I’m about to make something weird happen until it’s too late. And if there’s at least one other atypical at my school, then who knows how many others I’m going to run into in my everyday life?”

“You’ll figure out how to manage it,” she assures him. “You’ve had the capacity for this ability for at least ten years, and you’ve only had a handful of scattered incidents since then. I’m sure you’ll be able to keep living a mostly normal life. You don’t have to let this define you.”

“You say that like it’s so easy to live normally when I could blow up at any second. Sometimes literally,” he retorts. “No offense, but unless you also suddenly develop superpowers, you don’t get to pretend to understand what things are like for me.”

He does not realize how hostile his last statement sounds until he sees the stricken look on her face. “I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re right. I won’t ever be able to fully understand it. But that doesn’t mean that I can’t be here for you.”

“No, I know. And I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m glad you’ve been helping me figure this out. That day would have been even scarier if I thought I was just a telekinetic with weird restrictions.”

As much as he hates how there will always be this distance between them when it comes to her understanding of his experiences, he knows that he is lucky to have someone in his life who can tell him that yes, he does have a special ability, and no, it doesn’t have to be the end of the world. He imagines that many other atypicals do not have that luxury, and instead they must figure out their powers alone while perhaps not even knowing that there are others like them in the world.

“How do you think the other kids with abilities are dealing with it?” he wonders aloud. “If I could shoot fire out of my hands 24/7, I’d probably have burned down the school a long time ago. Jeez, not on purpose,” he adds, reading the look on Joan’s face. “But even having that power for like fifteen minutes max was a nightmare. I can’t imagine having to deal with it constantly.”

“Well, considering how the school is still standing, I imagine they have it handled,” Joan says. “Or maybe they haven’t fully developed their capabilities yet, or they aren’t powerful enough to cause any real damage. You said you were in the computer lab when this happened?” she then asks, as if she has been distracted by a sudden realization. “And you don’t normally have class there?”

“Yeah, we just use it when we’re doing digital photography stuff,” he replies. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“That must be why it hasn’t happened again. I don’t think anyone in your photography class is atypical—”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” Mark cuts in. “Otherwise I would have noticed it a long time before now.”

“—but the computer lab is next to the library, right?” she continues. “So you must have been picking up the ability from someone in there. That would explain why you haven’t had another incident, if the person was only using the library that one time during a study hall or a class period. Your paths just happened to cross at that moment, and you haven’t encountered them before or since.”

Her explanation seems solid enough, especially because he has felt entirely like himself during all of the subsequent times that he has had class in the computer lab. “Yeah, well, let’s hope that ‘since’ actually means ‘forever,’” he says. “I’d really love to make it through the rest of this school year with my sanity intact.”

“You will,” Joan promises him. “You’ve always been able to turn everything into an adventure. Just think of this as an obstacle that stands in the way of your superhero journey. Every hero needs a good emotional arc, right?”

A genuine smile curls up the corners of Mark’s mouth. “The Amazing Mimic Man, ready to get back up and save the day after a minor breakdown,” he says. “No, wait. _Marvelous_ Mimic Man. Gotta have that alliteration.”

“See? That’s the spirit.” Joan ruffles his hair affectionately and then stands up from his bed. “Just remember what I wrote in here.” She taps the cover of their notebook. “If anything else happens, don’t hesitate to call me if you need someone to talk to. I’ll try not to worry about you _too_ much.”

“A bold claim,” he teases. “But yeah, I definitely will.” His response is not an empty promise, either, because he cannot deny how a weight has been lifted from his shoulders after admitting some of his anxieties to her.

“I should let you get back to whatever it is you were doing,” Joan says. “If I don’t see you before I go to bed, good night.”

“Yeah, good night,” Mark echoes her as she walks out of his room and closes the door behind her.

Instead of returning to his computer, he grabs a pen and opens his and Joan’s notebook to the next blank page. He poises his pen above the page, gathering his thoughts into something coherent before he begins his message to reveal the unspoken words of his heart.

_Dear Joanie,_

_Thanks for having that talk with me. I know it’s stupid to write that here when I could have just thanked you in person, but now it’s officially on record. Anyway, I keep thinking about what you said about how I don’t have to let this define me. Ever since I first found out that I’m a you-know-what, I’ve spent a lot of time dwelling on how I have to redefine myself because of that. But there are a lot of things that make up who I am, and they all affect me in different ways that I can’t always control. I feel like I’m always going to be trying to figure myself out as I discover new parts of my identity, and that’s okay. I bet even you’re still figuring out who you are sometimes. Besides the fact that you’re my amazing sister, of course (ha ha)._

_So, here’s the list of what I know about myself so far:_

  * _My name is Mark Bryant, except for on all official forms because our parents obviously didn’t stop to think about how stupid “Byron Bryant” sounds before putting it on my birth certificate so now I’m doomed to the “going by my middle name” life_
  * _I am Asian American, even though most people don’t guess that when they just see my name (I still look the part, though)_
  * _I am bisexual, and so far you’re the only other person who knows that (but one day I hope that I can be out to everyone)_
  * _I am an artist and I want to go to art school to study photography after I graduate_
  * _I am atypical. I know you said not to talk about that here but I have to say it. I can use the abilities of other atypicals when I’m near them, and I still don’t know what that means for me other than sometimes it’s really cool and other times it’s terrifying_



_And there might be even more things about me that I haven’t discovered yet. The point is, I don’t know how the future is going to turn out. Maybe ten years from now I’ll have everything under control and I’ll be a famous photographer traveling the world with my awesome girlfriend or boyfriend. Or maybe everything will fall apart and I’ll have to find a new direction for my life (let’s hope not). But I’ll still always be me, no matter how many times I have to figure out the person I’m becoming. I guess that’s what growing up is._

_I know you’re probably reading this and thinking “Wow, when did my little brother get so wise?” Well, the answer is that you’ve always been the smartest person I know, so some of it was bound to rub off on me eventually. And I also think you’re kind of a superhero in your own way even though you don’t have any special powers. But you_ _do _ _help people, which is the most superhero-y thing I can think of. Maybe we can team up and save the world together. Marvelous Mimic Man and… Therapy Woman? I don’t know, I’ll have to workshop that one. But I know we’d be unstoppable._

_Love,_

_Mark_


End file.
